Betrayed

Chapter 18

Jerome Weller tossed restlessly in his bed. Finally, he heaved himself up and staggered to the window where he looked out at the early morning scene. He had not slept well, for obvious reasons. When he’d first said he could deliver the S&D information to an interested buyer, the project had seemed easy. He’d only had to study the personnel files and zero in on Arnold Blake.

Blake had been a spectacular failure.

Yesterday everything had been on track again. But now he thought he had only a fifty-fifty chance of getting that information. And if he didn’t? Unfortunately, he’d made it sound like he could deliver, and he’d already taken a down payment. What would the buyer do if he thought he was being stiffed? Jerome tried not to think about that eventuality.

Instead he pictured Alesandro Reyes downstairs in the torture room. The guy was in bad shape because Jerome had taken out his frustrations on the weakling. And when this was over, Alesandro was going to be dead. Jerome was going to make sure he didn’t end up the same way. He’d been thinking that if he had to, he could take his money and disappear. He’d always known it might come to that one day, and he already had several false identities set up. It was only a matter of putting those plans in motion. But if he could avoid leaving the comfortable surroundings he’d cultivated for so long, he was going to do that.

He took his time showering, shaving, and picking the shirt and slacks he wanted to wear. When he was a kid, most of his clothing had been handed down from his older brother. When he went off on his own, he’d vowed that he’d only have new clothing—and the best that money could buy. In this case, shirts, slacks, and jackets from a London tailor who had his measurements on file.

Finally, he was satisfied with his appearance, but he was too edgy to eat any breakfast, only coffee with heavy cream and a lot of sugar—his favorite way to drink it. Taken that way, it was almost like candy, but he barely tasted it this morning. Setting down the mug, he went out in the garden and walked the pebble paths of the boxwood maze.

Around nine, he finally got the call he’d been hoping for.

“We know where Gallagher and Reyes are holed up.”

“Spit it out,” he demanded.

“They’re on an estate a couple of miles down the river from where we lost them.”

“And they’re not going to slip out of your grasp again, right?”

“Right,” the man on the other end of the line said, his voice firm.

“You’d better hope so,” Jerome said, knowing he was transferring some of his own anxiety to the caller.

Shane tried to read the magazine he’d picked up, but his attention kept swinging back to Elena. She was slumped in her seat looking miserable. If this had been a normal situation, he would have pulled her into his lap and cuddled her against his chest while he stroked his hand through her hair.

Lord, she’d been so sweet and giving in bed. Could a woman fake such tender emotions? He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to make himself vulnerable to her again.

She might look miserable, but she was the one who had gotten herself into trouble. Repeatedly. Well, he amended that assessment. The hostage situation hadn’t been her fault. Unless there was something going on there that he didn’t know about.

He checked the time again. He hated sitting here with nothing to do—with a woman he didn’t trust as far as he could throw her, if you wanted to use a cliché. If he hit her with a bunch of questions, could he get the truth out of her? Or was that a waste of time?

He shuffled his feet, wanting to get moving. It would be a good idea to check out the area where they were being picked up to see if there was adequate cover—in case they ran into trouble. After that, he could walk back to the safe house and see if he could find any evidence of who had been there.

And while he was there, he could get some gun oil and work on his weapon to make sure it wouldn’t give him any problems. But he couldn’t do any of that because he had no idea what the woman sitting across from him would do while he was gone.

When he saw that she was looking at him, he dragged in a breath and let it out. “If you want to take a shower, go ahead,” he said.

“Can I?”

“Yeah. We never did get that river water off.” And you can’t get off the boat without my knowing it, he added silently.

She stood up, glancing at him as she walked by, then disappeared from the room, and he heard water running in the head. She was back in twenty minutes, wearing the same clothes, her hair towel-dried.

“If I shower, will you run off?” he asked.

“I’ll be here.”

He wasn’t sure how much mischief she could get into while he was getting cleaned up, but he took a two-minute shower, then wrapped a towel around his waist and looked into the main lounge, relieved that she was sitting where he’d left her.

Satisfied that she hadn’t run out on him, he went back to the cabin where they’d spent the night and pulled a windbreaker and a pair of jeans out of the drawer under the bunk. The jeans had a tight waistband, suitable for carrying his Sig. And the jacket would cover the weapon. He donned the jeans and put the sweatpants back, then returned to the main lounge, where Elena gave him an anxious look.

“We’re going to wipe this place down, then get out of here,” he said.

“Every page of the magazines?”

“We can take them.”

After they wiped the surfaces they’d touched, he said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Not far,” he answered, unwilling to share even the smallest amount of information with her. With the magazines tucked under one arm, he exited the boat.

She had to be curious about who was picking them up, but she simply followed him off the boat, up the pier, and along the road. He didn’t walk on the crunchy gravel but stuck to the woods at one side, and she did the same, staying in back of him as he wove his way through the trees and around brambles.

In the woods, he tossed the magazines into a swampy area and pushed them out of sight with a stick.

As they approached the highway, he picked a spot well in the shadows that would give him cover.

Elena stayed close to Shane, silent and cooperative. Apparently the meeting place was close to the main road. But she still didn’t know who was coming for them. Maybe it was one of the men he worked with at Rockfort Security. She and Shane had apparently arrived early. Or maybe their ride was taking longer than expected to get here. After about twenty minutes, she saw a gray SUV pull off the highway and turn onto the access road to the estate.

Her heart started to pound because she thought she recognized the vehicle. That must mean it didn’t belong to one of the other men in the security company.

“Who did you call?”

He didn’t answer.

She gulped. “Are you sure this is someone you trust?”

“Yeah.”

When he started to step out from the trees, she put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t.”

He turned toward her questioningly. “Why not?”

She gave him a pleading look. “I have a bad feeling.”

“You mean—like maybe you’re going to jail?”

“No. It has nothing to do with me.”

Again he only answered with a snorting sound. The feeling of dread increased when she saw the man who got out of the car.

It was Bert Iverson, who had been assistant security chief at S&D when she’d arrived and who hadn’t tried for the head job when Ted Winston retired. She’d never liked Iverson, and she didn’t trust him. She couldn’t explain why, but she’d had that impression the whole time she’d been at the company. If she had to put a label on his behavior, he came across as sneaky. And he had shown up unannounced a lot of times when she was working late. Of course, maybe that was standard operating procedure for a security guy. She might even say the same about Shane.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Shane spared her a glance. “Why?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Yeah, he was probably on your case.” He answered carelessly, as though he didn’t credit her judgment. And really, he was right in making the assessment. He’d worked with Iverson, and she’d had only cursory contact with the man. Before she could say anything else, Shane stepped out from behind the tree where he was hiding.