“A problem.”
“Go ahead.”
A pair of headlights flashed across the window. A vehicle pulled into the next driveway over, and Corbin squinted through the sheeting rain. He recognized his neighbor’s familiar battered minivan with a parade of stick people marching across the back window.
“This is more than embezzlement,” Corbin said. “Someone tried to grab the accountant in the Quetech parking garage. They were professionals. Armed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Corbin raked his hand through his hair. “The civilian prevented an engagement.”
“Then you were right about the terrorism connection.”
“Looks that way.”
“We’ll see if they left any evidence behind in the garage. Anything else?”
“Cayman Holdings isn’t listed in Quetech’s public records, but I traced an email about the bank.”
“Where’s the accountant now?”
“She’s with me,” Corbin said.
As long as she didn’t bolt, she had a chance at partial immunity. Maybe she hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did. Maybe she hadn’t realized where the money was being funneled. Maybe she wanted to repent. The Bible said there’d be more joy in heaven for one sinner who repented than for ninety-nine righteous men.
Or maybe he just wanted to make excuses for her because he’d seen her hovering near the door of the break room during the monthly celebration of birthdays and anniversaries. She’d lingered just beyond the crowd of coworkers as they laughed and joked, looking in, but never crossing the threshold.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then turned and snatched his identification from the open safe.
None of that mattered. She was in his custody, whether she knew it or not. She was suspicious of him, a disadvantage. Right now, she was probably weighing her options. Trying to decide if she was more afraid of him, the police, or the men in the garage.
Given that he didn’t trust her allegiance, he wasn’t confident how she’d react to his true identity.
Another pair of headlights flashed across the front window. The hazy shape of another car snagged his attention. His neighbor, Ruth, and her husband drove a sedan, but he couldn’t decipher the make and model from this distance through the rain-streaked window.
“You still there?” the voice on the other end of the line demanded.
Corbin stepped closer, and his breath fogged the glass. “The accountant needs protective custody.”
“I can’t authorize the expense until we know for certain she has viable information.”
“She’s become a liability. Those men weren’t taking her out for ice cream.”
“I trust your judgment, but I need something concrete. Find out what she knows. I’ll walk this up the chain and see what I can do.”
A car door slammed.
Corbin’s scalp tingled. “We’ll talk later.”
He raced out of the house and skidded to a halt. His driver’s door hung open, and his jacket lay neatly folded on the seat. Rain trickled down his collar, and he muttered an oath.
Beth hadn’t called the police. She’d run. Strike Three.
Beth cut through several yards, grateful for the chain-link fences and caring pet owners who kept their guard dogs safe by the fire when it rained. Ominous clouds blocked the setting sun, rapidly darkening the twilight. Enormous trees dotted the landscape of older homes. Above her, leaves in brilliant shades of autumnal gold and crimson remained caught in that stunning moment before the branches grew bare for winter. The wind whipped between the close-set houses, turning the chilled rain into icy, stinging pellets.
Her heels sank in the rain-soaked grass. At least she’d had the presence of mind to grab her shoe in the parking garage. She spotted the glowing lights of a gas station in the distance and traversed a low retaining wall into an alley behind a row of houses. She dodged between garbage cans and detached garages, making her way toward the streetlights at the far end of the block.
Who was Corbin Ross?
One thing was obvious—he was no financial consultant. He’d handled the terrifying situation in the parking garage with far too much aplomb. He’d also known she lived in an apartment. A lucky guess? Maybe. He’d said he’d served in the military, but he hadn’t elaborated. Had he been with Special Forces? Was he a mercenary?
He could be working for the Feds, for Quetech Industries or for Cayman Holdings Limited. None of which boded well for her.
Huddled beneath the awning of the nearby gas station and tucked in the shadows, she ordered an Uber. For the next fifteen minutes, she danced from foot to foot and rubbed her hands together in an awkward dance to keep warm.
She’d collided with Corbin moments after hitting Send. What had he seen? At the very least, he’d lied to her. He certainly wasn’t a financial officer living in the suburbs. Corbin might have saved her life, but he hadn’t earned her trust. Whatever his loyalties, he was hiding something.
With each passing set of headlights, she searched for his car. Would he try and follow her? If he was with the Feds, would he call the police?
From what she’d learned from her dad, the Feds didn’t call in the local police unless they were desperate. They thought cops leaked information like sieves, and they were overly cautious with their loyalties. A fact that might work to her advantage depending on Corbin’s true identity. She didn’t want the world; she only wanted to survive until tomorrow.
Keeping out of sight, she followed the driver’s progress on her phone app and only stepped from her cover when the car pulled beneath the lighted awning.
The Uber driver barely blinked at her unkempt state. Beth mumbled “Union Station” and collapsed on to the worn upholstery.
Once at the train station, she hunched her shoulders and ducked her head, keeping her gaze averted from the ever-present cameras. An overweight security guard wearing an ill-fitting uniform gazed at her from his post. She flashed a smile, and her stomach clenched. How did criminals manage? Appearing innocent while terrified was harder than it seemed and infinitely more exhausting.
She checked the time on her phone, and her pulse picked up rhythm. She’d left Corbin’s house forty-five minutes ago. Time was ticking away. Earlier that week, she’d made a shorter trip from this same station, and had purposefully left her luggage behind on the train. Ensuring the porter found it before a thief had been tricky, but not impossible. She retrieved her backpack from the unclaimed luggage department and ducked into the bathroom.
A harried mother ushered a crying toddler
