Time to Run

This one's for you, Sunshine. Thank you for the inspiration.

For my Broken Arrow cousins, the nicest bunch of people you could ever hope to know.

A lot of super people had a hand in creating this book, but my editor gets first mention for her skill in taking a rock of a manuscript and finding the diamond in it. Thanks so much, Devi, for your faith in me.

Special thanks to three very loyal readers who offered their time and talent in proofreading this manuscript: Kerry Sehloff, Cathy Goldman, and Lisa Panzarella. I'm so very grateful to you.

Thanks, also, to Louis Dooley and John Polak of the Virginia State Police Fifth Division Bomb Squad, for sharing your expertise with me, not to mention a thoroughly enjoyable luncheon, and to my dear friend Laura for hosting it.

And thank you to my Broken Arrow cousins, Tom and Lynn Lewis and Jennifer Anthis, for all your help in making my setting as realistic as possible.

Big thanks goes to all my children and stepchildren: Bryan, Tricia, Conrad, Chauncey, and Grace, for putting up with me being chained to my computer the entire summer while shrieking, "Be quiet! I have a deadline!"

Lastly, thank you, Alan, my sweetheart, for just being you.

Sara was diligent in putting away the frozen groceries first, the way her husband expected. Food requiring refrigeration came next, each item neatly placed into its proper receptacle within the stainless-steel refrigerator. The packages and boxes were already stowed in their respective cupboards, but cans still littered the granite countertop. Hearing Garret emerge from his study, Sara hurried to put them away.

Any minute, Garret was going to poke his head through the door to inquire what her plans were for supper and, unfortunately for her, she hadn't given a thought yet as to what they were going to eat.

Working quickly, she slid the cans one by one onto the cabinet shelf, alphabetizing as she went. Baked beans went before chicken broth, which went before green beans; then mushrooms, ravioli, stewed tomatoes, and three-bean salad.

On second thought, maybe the broth ought to be classified with soups, or would that annoy him?

Transferring the chicken broth to the soup shelf, she stepped back to doublecheck the order: broccoli, celery, chicken broth, chili, gazpacho, lentil, then tomato.

Wherever there were two cans of the same kind, one went behind the other, and the can in front had to have an earlier expiration date.

With a huff of annoyance, she shut the cabinet door. She didn't have time to check the expiration dates, which were all years from now, anyway. If she didn't think of a meal to cook tonight, Garret would find something else to take away from her.

She opened the stainless-steel freezer and frowned at the contents. What was wrong with her that she couldn't remember to take the meat out in the morning? Garret was bound to lecture her.
Forethought, Sara, is all that this requires. Or are you too simple to plan ahead just a few hours?

Simple? No. She had a master's degree from the University of Virginia, which she'd earned before she met him, of course. If he knew how truly clever she was, how masterfully she kept her secrets from him, he'd lock her up in the attic.

She snatched up a package of frozen hamburger meat and tossed it into the microwave.

The throbbing of a bass drum had Sara glancing up with consternation. What was Kendal doing playing his music that loudly? Surely he knew that his father worked at home on Wednesdays.

She drew an agitated breath. If he didn't turn the volume down, they were both bound to face some kind of reprimand.

Abandoning the kitchen, Sara hurried through the marble foyer toward the stairs to warn him. She slowed when she saw that the door to Garret's study was open. That's right, she'd heard him leave his study just moments before. She realized that he was already upstairs having words with Kendal.
Oh dear.

The sudden silence told her that Garret had ripped the stereo plug from the wall. She could hear his voice now, harsh punctuations of sound that she couldn't make out words to. With a foot on the bottom step, she listened. Garret didn't like it when she interfered.

An awful silence ensued.

"No!"

Kendal's wail galvanized her. Sara took the broad, curving steps three at a time, her heart jumping up her throat as she envisioned what Garret could have done to elicit such a cry of protest. He'd never laid a hand on Kendal as far as she knew.

She arrived at the second floor in the same instant that Garret stalked from Kendal's bedroom, Mr. Whiskers dangling from one hand. "Throw this away," he commanded, thrusting the French Lop rabbit at her as he stormed past. "That ought to teach
your
son not to disturb me when I'm working."

Sara caught the limp creature in her arms. She could tell right away that it was dead.

She looked down at it, stunned. There was nothing visibly wrong with it—no open gashes, no blood anywhere, but it was definitely dead.

The sound of Kendal panting had her hurrying forward. "Sweetheart?"

She found him on the edge of his bed, arms clasped to his midsection, staring wide-eyed at the empty rabbit cage.

"Honey?" She eased onto the bed beside him, dead rabbit cradled in her arms. "What happened?" She'd never seen him like this, gasping as if he'd been punched in the stomach. "What did your father do?" she asked, shaking his arm when she got no answer.

"Strangled," he whispered, through bloodless lips.

"What?" Horror squeezed Sara's heart. Garret wouldn't have strangled Kendal's rabbit to death—or would he?

The boy continued to pant as if desperate for air. She jumped up to find something he could breathe into. There was a lunch bag, filled with school supplies. She emptied it and brought it to him. "Breathe into this, honey. You need to calm down."

Calm down? The suggestion was ludicrous! How could anyone be calm in this nerve-wracking environment?

Kneeling on the plush carpet, she watched the bag inflate and deflate. Kendal's panting subsided, but his face still reflected shock. How many times had she looked into the mirror and seen herself looking like that?

Volcanic, maternal rage boiled within her. It was one thing to let Garret intimidate her; it was another thing to let him victimize her son. How dare he threaten her baby, her reason for enduring this marriage in the first place?

No more. This was where she drew the line, where she pulled together her fragmented plans for freedom and made them a reality. "Listen to me," she whispered, placing the dead rabbit on the floor to grasp his knees. "We are going to leave him, Kendal. We don't have to live like this."

He looked at her. At last, she had his full attention.

"I have a plan," she admitted, speaking so quietly that even if Garret had planted a listening device in Kendal's room he couldn't overhear. "I can't tell you what it is, but it's going to work. We are going to leave," she said again, "and we're never coming back," she added fiercely.

The scales of shock fell from Kendal's eyes, giving way to hope. "He'll find us," he whispered fearfully.

"No, he won't. I've kept a secret from him. Something that he doesn't know."

The boy's gaze fell to the lifeless bundle at their feet. "I'm afraid," he admitted.

"I know, sweetheart."
I
am, too.
"That's why I can't tell you any more. You'll just have to trust me."

He gave a tentative nod, which Sara took as a token of his agreement and, hopefully, his cooperation when the time came.

She needed more than that, though.

She needed a miracle to help them get away.

Next Day

Chief Petty Officer Chase McCaffrey stalked into the Trial Services Building on Oceana Naval Base in a piss-poor mood. He hadn't put a dent in the paperwork piled on top of his desk at the Spec Ops and, already, he was having to pack his bags and leave—not on an assignment this time, but to claim the land his stepfather had left to him, land he never wanted to go home to.

The young, African-American security guard on duty greeted him warmly. "How you doin', Chief? I ain't seen you here in months!"

"Twelve to be exact," Chase told him, slapping the envelope he'd brought onto the X-ray belt. He withdrew his pistol, a SIG Sauer P226, out of the holster on his battle dress uniform belt and surrendered it to the guard, along with his cell phone, neither of which was permitted in the building.

"Where you been?" Petty Officer Marcelino Hewitt asked. "Oh, wait, I guess you can't tell me that. It's classified."

"Somewhere hot," said Chase succinctly. Which had to be obvious, given his savage tan and sun-bleached eyebrows. He stepped through the metal detector, feeling vulnerable. But this wasn't Malaysia. In this building, he was safe from everything but long lines and red tape, neither of which he had time for today.

"What's wrong, Chief? You don't look so chipper today," Hewitt needled, reverting to their habit of harassing each other.

"I am never chipper," Chase articulated, with a scowl that was half-genuine, half-pretend.

"Jolly, then," Hewitt amended, with a straight face.

"Fuck you," Chase said, without heat. "You're the one who's jolly." His gaze fell to the petty officer's ample midsection. "I thought I told you to lose weight. You've put on at least ten pounds."

The man chuckled. "You said to lay off the donuts. You didn't say nothin' about no honey buns, though," he retorted gleefully.

Chase snatched his folder off the X-ray belt as it reappeared. "No pastries, period, Hewitt," he suggested. "And lay off the soda," he added, pointing out the can of Coke in the guard's work area.

"Aw, Chief!" Hewitt protested with exaggerated grief.

But Chase was already halfway down the hallway. All he needed was for Commander Spenser, a JAG lawyer, to sign off on the document Chase carried, stating that he agreed to represent a petty officer third class in Chase's platoon who'd cracked a few skulls at the waterfront.

With a mutter of annoyance that his job at home port amounted to babysitting, Chase stalked into the lounge area outside the counselor's chambers. To his relief, only one other person, a woman, sat waiting. But then he noticed that the lawyers' offices were empty. Through the milky glass windows in the door across the hall, he could see that they'd come together in a meeting.

"Fuck me," Chase growled, throwing himself down into a hard, plastic lounge chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman's head come up sharply. "Sorry," he apologized glancing her way.

Their gazes locked in mutual surprise as they recognized each other.

She was Sara Garret, wife of the infamous prosecuting JAG from Lieutenant Renault's court-martial last year.

She'd intrigued him then. Her gray-green eyes had the same effect on him now as they moved over him, taking in his sun-streaked goatee, his jungle-camouflage BDUs, and his black, lace-up boots.

"Do you know how long they're going to be in there?" he asked, unsettled by her scrutiny.

"Um, I don't know," she admitted, biting her lower lip. "Maybe half an hour longer?"

He couldn't look away from her, just like at last year's court-martial. He'd tried to speak with her at the trial's end, only she'd darted into the restroom, frustrating his attempt. He could assuage his curiosity now. "Have we met before?" he asked, certain that they had. "Before the court-martial, I mean."

Her face took on a certain radiance. "Well, yes, actually. You were in San Diego about four years ago?"

How'd she know that?

"You jump-started my car in the library parking lot," she explained. "I'd left the lights on, and the battery was dead."

He didn't remember.

"Then a couple years later, I rammed my shopping cart into yours, right here at the local commissary."

Now that he kind of remembered. Her cart had upset the six-pack of canned soda he'd slung over the side of his. Two of the cans had plummeted to the floor, spraying carbonated soda all over his pant legs. The woman had been so shaken that he'd had to call for the mop to do the cleanup himself. "That was you?" he asked.

"Yes." Flushing with chagrin, she focused on the notebook in her lap, which was what she'd been doing when he walked in.

He let himself consider her. From her mousy brown hair to the shapeless beige dress she wore, she wasn't much to look at. She was nervous and tense, and she'd perfected the art of blending in, a skill detectable by one who hid for a living, a sniper like him. He'd wondered last year what she was hiding from. He was still wondering.