door. Another bullet shattered the windshield of her car. Beth threw her arms over her face and crouched behind the dash.
Corbin shifted into Reverse and braced his hand on the back of the passenger seat. Looking over his shoulder, he sped down the garage ramp in reverse. When they reached the next level, he spun the wheel. The tires squealed and smoked, circling the car forward.
“Put on your seat belt,” he ordered gruffly.
Her fingers fumbling, Beth complied. The parking-garage gate was open, and he raced through the exit. He didn’t live in the city, but he’d gotten to know the layout over the past two weeks.
Glancing at the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the car following them. “Hang on. This might get bumpy.”
He couldn’t get a good look at the men driving. Average height and build. Sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. One of them was wearing a dark ball cap with lighter lettering. He squinted into the rearview mirror. Maybe a Bears hat. It was too difficult to discern.
The sky was overcast, creating an early twilight. He wove through the Friday afternoon traffic and turned on to a side street packed with orange cones and graded for resurfacing. He only needed a few twists and turns. The men following them were liable to give up easily. Traffic was heavy, and there were too many witnesses. A Friday evening in downtown Chicago meant extra police patrolling the tipsy happy-hour crowds.
He took a corner and then another. Cars filled in behind them, and he drove toward the freeway ramp. Soon they were caught in the rush of traffic. Concentrating on the road and keeping a watch for a tail kept his attention focused. Beth remained silent; her hands braced against the dash. He raised an eyebrow. Though she had her phone, she hadn’t dialed the police. A cop’s daughter who didn’t call the police after an attack.
Strike two.
Once he was confident the men following them had given up, he exited the freeway and drove toward a park near his rented house. The lot was empty save for a single vehicle. A young couple played Frisbee in the distance, oblivious to the darkening sky.
He turned toward Beth and came face-to-face with her container of pepper spray.
Lifting his hands, he said, “Easy there. Don’t shoot.”
He’d been pepper-sprayed in the army, and he’d prefer not to repeat the experience.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Corbin Ross. You might remember me from the finance meeting this morning. The one with the stale donuts and the endless PowerPoint.”
His joke lifted one edge of her mouth.
“Sam must have had over a hundred slides,” she said.
“And half of them were charts.”
Her blond hair had come loose from the severe bun she wore at the nape of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder in a gilded wave. Though her hands shook, she stared him down with a steely determination in her leaf-green eyes. Her words were light, but her intentions were deadly serious. His heartbeat kicked. This wasn’t personal. This was business. The first rule of undercover work was never get involved with your subject. Fraternizing with a suspect was a surefire path to the unemployment line.
The container wavered. “Take me back to my car.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, soothingly. “Someone may be watching your car. Your apartment isn’t safe, either. I’ll take you to the police station.”
“No.” Her gaze narrowed. “No police.”
“You can’t run from this,” he said. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s time to own up.”
A series of suspicious transactions with Cayman Holdings had brought Quetech Industries to the attention of the Cyber Division of Homeland Security. Two years before, Corbin had worked with the FBI on a case involving the same bank. A forensic accountant, Timothy Swan, had claimed to have evidence against Cayman Holdings, Limited. Beth Greenwood’s name had come up during the investigation. With no suspects in Swan’s death and insufficient evidence to pursue the fraud, the case had languished.
When the bank had come to the attention of Homeland Security once more, Corbin had volunteered for the undercover assignment. Beth Greenwood’s employment at Quetech Industries had been too much of a coincidence. She’d worked with Timothy Swan before. She’d spoken to the accountant about the case before his death. This was the second time her name had been linked to Cayman Holdings.
For the past two weeks, Corbin had worn a suit and tie and gossiped over the water cooler. Two weeks hadn’t given him enough time to unravel the complicated financial dealings. All he had were his suspicions, but they were adding up quickly.
“If you tell the truth,” Corbin said. “I’ll do what I can to help you.”
He wasn’t lying to her. Not exactly. As long as she turned over state’s evidence, he’d put in a good word with the prosecutor.
“What are you saying?” Beth rapidly shook her head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men attacked me.”
“What did they want?”
She ducked her head. “How should I know?”
“Then why aren’t we going to the police station?”
Since he’d left the army for stateside government work, he’d seen plenty of embezzlement scandals. In his experience, white-collar criminals didn’t hire killers when they were caught red-handed—they bought boats and disappeared in the Caribbean. Beth and Quetech Industries were involved in something far more sinister than simple embezzlement.
She shook her head. “It’s complicated. The less you know, the better.”
“Look, I’d rather be listening to Janice’s rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Sun’ than having this conversation, but those men had guns. They used bullets.”
One of them was embedded in the hood of his car. Evidence he’d check later.
The dark gray clouds overhead gave way, and a steady drumming of rain tapped against the car roof. The couple playing Frisbee dashed toward their vehicle, giggling and holding hands. The man held the Frisbee over the woman’s head in a poor attempt to shield her from the rain.
Beth’s distress tugged at Corbin, cementing his resolve. He had to keep his distance, both mentally and physically. He’d seen how her sort operated. Once she knew she was caught, there’d be a sob story, a tearful plea for clemency.
Except he wasn’t in the business of providing sanctuary. “Do people just randomly kidnap you, or is this Friday special?”
The canister of pepper spray shook violently, and her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. “What about my car?”
As the shock penetrated her defenses, her bravado slipped.
“Your windshield is shot out. We caught them off guard. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit.”
Her breath came in sharp huffs. She glanced through the rain-streaked
