“Get down!” He pushed Jericho to the floor, and the next few seconds ticked by with time-altered clarity.
Caught in the crosshairs of the well-orchestrated hit, Cole dove for the cover of a row of chairs and dragged Jericho behind him. Paulie was there a second later, shielding Jericho with his own body, as an explosion of gunfire shattered glass and popped stuffing out of the upholstery and ricocheted off stainless steel.
Shots rang out from a third direction and the driver fell.
Cole palmed his Glock and fired. Once to move the shooter to the edge of the desk. Twice to nail him in the chest and throw him against the back wall.
The seconds returned to real time as the attendant sank to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the wall behind him. Cole rose to a crouch to assess the man outside—dead or dying, his gun out of reach. Keeping his Glock trained on the front desk, he stood, bracing his hand on Jericho’s shoulder to keep him down and out of the line of fire.
“Everybody in one piece?” Cole asked, hearing the gasps and wails of the receptionist as she huddled inside the break-room doorway.
Jericho trembled beneath his hand, shaking off Cole’s concern. “Dammit. I never should have hired that lowlife. Couldn’t drive worth—”
“I’m good,” Paulie answered, climbing to his feet. He wielded his gun as well. He scooped a hand beneath Jericho’s arm and helped him stand. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Take him.” Cole pushed Jericho toward Paulie and the door, and rushed to the desk. He knelt down to check the attendant. Dead. Damn.
For the homeland? That didn’t sound like a typical hit. Where was this guy from, anyway?
He’d have Lee run the guy’s face and prints through the computer. If they could ID the hitman, chances were they could track down whoever ordered the hit. Maybe tie it in to a lead on Daniel Meade’s death.
“Cole!” Paulie urged.
The receptionist stared at Cole in openmouthed shock. Call the cops, he mouthed, hoping his insistence was enough reassurance for her to believe he wouldn’t kill her as well.
There were voices in the halls now, as if someone had conducted a fire drill and the evacuated staff and patients were just now returning to the building. Cole stood and hurried toward the front door. But the fallen man near the linen cart caught his attention.
“God, no.” He dashed to Lee’s side and rolled him onto his back. Cole swore, every last vicious, damn-the-universe curse he knew. He smoothed the scraggly hair off the investigator’s forehead, revealing the bullet wound that had taken his life. Lee had taken out the driver, but somewhere in the melee, he’d gone down in the line of duty.
A mist stung the corners of Cole’s eyes. Damn. Damn. Damn. Lee still held his gun in his frozen grip. His badge was peeking out of his front pants pocket. Respect and regret swamped Cole. He didn’t even know if Lee had a family…. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t any damn way to live—or lose—a life.
A stroke of divine fortune had him pushing the shield down into Lee’s pocket and hiding it an instant before he felt the tugging at his sleeve. Paulie.
“We go now, Taylor.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Cole rolled to his feet and followed Paulie out the door. Jericho was already in the back of the limo. Cole climbed in beside him while Paulie got in behind the wheel and floored it.
The painted trees passed by in a blur, as did his conversation with Jericho. Yes, he was all right. Pissed off. Sore. But all right.
Cole had done his job. Followed his instincts. Made his shot. Put his life on the line for the man to whom he’d sworn his loyalty. He couldn’t protect his own mother and nephew, but he’d kept these murderers alive. The gall of it burned in his throat and chest, as Jericho promised a substantial bonus and a thorough check into Kramer and his clinic.
And as they sped down the highway toward the river—with Jericho on the phone to Chad while Cole checked his gun and holstered it—another, even more disturbing realization churned the bile in his throat.
His contact was dead.
He had no connection to the real world now. No backup. No lifeline. Nowhere to go for safety. No one to call for help.
He was on his own.
The surrounding danger and guaranteed death that such a deception could cost him didn’t bother him as much as it should have.
It was the madness that scared him. Knowing just how easy it would be for him to turn now. To forget who he really was. To never find his way back to life and love and the reasons he’d agreed to this assignment in the first place.
He’d killed a man today. He was more Meade than Taylor now.
Chapter Two
Victoria Westin sweated.
Let the upper-crust grande dames like her mother perspire or glow like a lady. When Judeen Westin wanted to improve her appearance, she had something lipoed or lifted or nipped and tucked. When she wasn’t feeling good about herself, she got a new boyfriend.
When Tori wasn’t feeling good about herself, she ran. As she started her last mile, the coolness of the June morning was rapidly dissipating as a canopy of river town humidity set in for the day. But she didn’t mind. The rhythm of her feet hitting the rubberized track drowned out the memory of last night’s phone call with her mother.
“You really should make peace with your grandfather, Victoria.”
“Is something wrong? Is he ill?” That momentary flash of concern that snuck around her hardened defenses should have warned her. If she didn’t care, she couldn’t be hurt. But once her emotions kicked in, she made an easy target. And her mother rarely failed to hit the bull’s-eye.
“No. But he’ll die someday. When your father died unexpectedly, we never had a chance to say goodbye. This isn’t just about your inheritance, but about living with a clean conscience. I know you have your work as a diversion, but I’d hate for you to be all alone and dealing with the rift between you two. You really should plan ahead.”
Father. Inheritance. Alone. Three direct hits.
“Mother, I’m a little busy now. And we’ve covered this ground before. Is there another reason you called?”
Though her mother believed Tori’s work at the Nelson-Atkins art museum was her life, it was her real job as a federal agent that gave her a sense of purpose and accomplishment. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. For a variety of reasons, she’d never been able to tell her mother much of anything. Already stung by the mention of her father’s death in a plane crash twelve years ago, she wasn’t surprised as the conversation continued to spiral downhill.
“Have you thought again about having your breasts augmented, dear? I’ve met the most delicious cosmetic surgeon here in California. He says there’s a procedure that—”
“Mother.”
“I’ve always thought you’d
