Valley of Shadows

Hawke slowed the SUV, afraid his seatbelt-less passenger would fly out on the next bounce. “Close the door.”

“I’d rather you stop the car so I can get out.” Her voice shook and her hand trembled violently as she tugged against his hold, but there was no mistaking her determination.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know the situation and probably assumed the worst. If he’d had time to explain, he would have, but he didn’t. Not with death following so close behind them.

He released her hand, pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it toward the already terrified woman, ruthlessly shoving aside every shred of compassion he felt for her. “I said, close the door.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she’d take a chance and jump. Finally, she reached for the handle and pulled the door closed, her body tense and trembling.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Hawke winced as the SUV bumped over a curb, its tires sliding onto smooth pavement. Traffic was lighter then he’d expected, and he merged onto the road, picking up speed and hoping that would be enough to discourage his passenger from trying to jump out again. Being distracted didn’t figure into his escape plan. Then again, escaping with a woman who looked like she belonged in a cozy home with a couple of kids playing at her feet wasn’t part of his plan, either.

So he’d have to make a new plan. Fast.

But first, he needed to get to a safe place.

Miranda fisted her hand around her purse and tried to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated and passed out there’d be no chance of escape. The man beside her still held the gun pointed in her direction. Though his gaze was fixed on the road, Miranda was sure he was aware of every move she made. A few minutes ago he’d seemed a helpless victim who needed saving. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Something flashed in the periphery of her vision, and she glanced in the side mirror, catching sight of blue and white lights in the distance. Hope made her heart leap and her pulse race.

Please let them be coming for us.

But even as she mumbled the prayer, her dark-haired kidnapper took the beltway ramp, speeding into traffic with barely a glance at oncoming vehicles. Miranda gasped, releasing her purse so that she could hold on to the seat. The lights had disappeared from view, but the car’s speed and swift lane changes should attract more police attention.

If it didn’t get Miranda and her kidnapper killed first.

As if he sensed her thoughts, the man eased up on the gas and pulled into the slow lane, dashing Miranda’s hope of rescue. Tense with worry, sick with dread, she prayed desperately for some way out, her gaze scanning the cars that passed, her mind scrambling for a plan. Any plan.

“If you let me out here, I won’t press charges.”

“Charges?”

“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.” His voice was harsh, an exotic accent adding depth and richness to the words, but doing nothing to soften the tone.

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry. It seemed the only way to keep you from doing something we’d both regret.” He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, his movements economical and practiced, as if he’d done the same a thousand times before.

And somehow, looking at his chiseled face and the scar that bisected it from cheekbone to chin, Miranda had a feeling he had. She slid closer to the door, wishing they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic or that she dared jump out of a car traveling sixty miles an hour. But they weren’t, she didn’t. She was reduced to sitting terrified as she was driven farther and farther from home.

She eyed the man, the door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe she could attract someone’s attention with a gesture or an expression. Maybe—

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.” He wasn’t even looking her way, yet seemed to sense her intentions.

She stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” She tried to put confidence in her voice, tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

Miranda blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you with the FBI?”

He hesitated and Miranda had the feeling he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. When he finally answered, his tone was much more gentle than it had been before. “No, but I plan to be just as effective in keeping you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me go.”

“Then it would have been better if you’d walked away and left me to deal with Jefferson on my own.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“And now he’s going to try to kill us both.” His tone was grim, his jaw tight, and Miranda had no doubt he believed what he was saying.

She just wasn’t sure she did. “Why?”

“Because I’m a threat and because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were foolish enough to let him know it.”

“What else was I suppose to do? Let him kill you?”

“Let whatever was to happen, happen.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I can’t let you go.” His tone was softer than Miranda would have expected from such a hard-looking man and she studied his profile, wishing she could read more in his face.

“Who are you?” The question popped out, though Miranda wasn’t sure what answer she hoped for—a name, an occupation, some clue as to who she was dealing with.

“Hawke Morran.” He answered the question without actually answering it. The name doing nothing to explain who Hawke was or why Liam had been trying to kill him.

“Who are you to Liam?”

“Liam? You know Jefferson?” The gentleness was gone, replaced by a harshness that made Miranda cringe.

“Everyone in Essex knows him.”

“I’m not interested in everyone. I’m interested in you. You say you know him. Does he know you? Your name? Where you live?”

Did he? Miranda was sure he knew her name, and there was no doubt he knew where she worked, he visited the bakery several times a week. It would be easy enough to get her address. “Probably.”

Hawke muttered something in a language Miranda didn’t recognize, the words unintelligible, the frustration behind them obvious.

Her own frustration rose, joining the fear that pounded frantically through her blood. She’d done what she thought was right. Now, she’d pay for it. That seemed to be a pattern in her life. “I own a business in Essex. Lots of people know me. Liam just happens to be one of them.”

“He also just happens to be a murderer.”

Miranda didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen Liam in action; watched him pull a gun on a bound and blindfolded man, had seen the cold determination in his eyes as he’d caught sight of her. She had known then that she was seconds from death. “We need to go to the police and tell them what happened before Liam hurts someone else.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly what I said. I’ve got a phony criminal record. The police won’t believe anything I have to say. You’re with me. It stands to reason they won’t believe you, either.” He glanced her way, his gaze searing into hers before he turned his attention back to the road.

“Why—”

“We’ll discuss it all later.” His tone was curt and dismissive, the kind that brooked no argument.

And Miranda didn’t want to argue. She wanted to let things play out the way they would. Just as she had so many times before. With her sister. Her mother. Her father. Boyfriends. It always seemed so much easier to go with the flow than to fight against the tide. This time, though, the tide was dragging her out into dangerous waters and she had a feeling that if she didn’t fight it she’d be pulled under. “Later isn’t good enough. I want answers now.”

He shrugged, but didn’t speak as he steered the SUV onto an off-ramp.

The neighborhood he drove through was battered, the houses 1970s cookie cutters, every street lined with pickup trucks and scrap-metal cars. Miranda knew the area—a tough, crime-ridden neighborhood on the edge of D.C. When Hawke pulled into a driveway, she put her hand on the door, ready to yank it open and flee, but he grabbed her arm, his hand a steel band trapping her in place.

His breath fanned her cheek as he leaned close. “We’re getting out my side, walking around to the back of the house, getting a new ride and you’re not going to do anything foolish. Time isn’t on our side and I don’t want to waste any of it chasing after you. All right?”

The memory of the gun he’d tucked into his waistband spurred Miranda to do as he said, her heart pounding a sickening beat as Hawke tugged her across the front seat and out the door.

The moon shone bright and yellow in the navy sky and the crisp air chilled Miranda’s clammy skin as Hawke hurried her around the side of a house.

An old garage stood at the back of the property and he punched numbers into a security pad on the door, then tugged Miranda to a dark sedan inside.

“Get in.” His words were gruff, his hand gentle as he pressed it against her shoulder, urging her to do as he’d commanded.

The car door slammed with a finality that stilled the breath in Miranda’s lungs. She shouldn’t be allowing this. Crime prevention experts said it all the time—never get in a car with your attacker. Never let him take you away from the scene.

And here she was, doing exactly that.

But Hawke wasn’t an attacker. He was a man who’d almost been killed. A man she’d saved. Now he claimed to be saving her. She wasn’t sure if she believed him. All she knew was that eventually there’d be a chance to escape. She could only pray that when it came, she’d know for sure whether or not she should take it.

THREE

Hawke’s head throbbed with every movement, every sound reverberating through his brain. He ignored the pain, determined to put as much distance between his new ride and the SUV as possible. It wasn’t just his life on the line this time. He had his passenger to worry about, as well.

Who was she? What had brought her to the funeral home so late at night? Not the hope of scoring drugs. Hawke was almost sure of that, though he’d been sure of things before and been proven wrong.

He risked a quick glance in her direction, gritting his teeth at the renewed throbbing in his head. The woman’s arms were crossed at her waist, her eyes trained straight ahead. She looked scared, not high on drugs. “What’s your name?”

His words must have startled her. She jerked, her arm brushing against his side, her breath leaving on a quick, raspy gasp. “Miranda. Sheldon.”

“Miranda.” The name rolled off his tongue as if he’d said it a thousand times before. “What were you doing at a funeral home so late at night?”

“I was taking a walk.” There was more to it than that. Hawke was sure of it, though he couldn’t blame her for denying him answers.

“And while you were walking you saved my life.”

“Would you rather I had walked away and let you die?”

“Other people would have.”

“I’m not other people. I’m me.”

“And who is that, Miranda Sheldon? Besides a woman caught up in something she didn’t ask for?”

“Just your everyday, average American.” Her words were quiet, barely audible above the rumbling of the car and the slushing agony in his skull, but Hawke heard.

He glanced at Miranda again. The softness he’d noticed when he’d first seen her was only magnified in the close confines of the car. Smooth skin. Shiny hair that fell to her shoulders. Lips and face unadorned. Short unpainted nails. No rings. No jewelry of any kind. Apples. Cinnamon. A sweetness that was obvious even while she was afraid for her life. “There is nothing average or everyday about a woman who’d risk her own life for someone else.”

She didn’t respond and he knew he should be glad. He needed to plan his next move, not carry on a conversation. He rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring the blood that seeped from his head and coated his fingers. To formulate a plan he’d need more information and he knew just where to get it.

He yanked open the glove compartment and pulled out the cell phone he kept there, pushing speed dial to connect with the one number stored on it. The phone rang once before it was picked up.

“Stone, here.” Noah Stone’s voice was tight and gruff, and Hawke knew that the call had been expected. A former DEA agent, Noah was one of the few people who knew Hawke was in the States and what he was doing there. Of those privy to Hawke’s mission, Noah was the only one he trusted.

“It’s Hawke.”

“I thought you might be calling.”

“So you’ve already heard?”

“That you murdered the agent you were working with and stole fifty thousand dollars cash? Who hasn’t?”

“I didn’t steal fifty thousand dollars.”

“That leaves the question of murder open.”

“Smithfield was dead when I got to the rendezvous.” Lying in a pool of his own blood, his head split open.

“Murdered with a machete that had your fingerprints all over it.”

“It should. It’s mine. I left it in Thailand nine months ago.” And yet it was here. He’d seen it with his own eyes—the flat blade and carved-bone handle worn from years of use in the jungles of Mae Hong Son. He’d been leaning down to examine it when he’d been hit from behind.

Which could only mean one thing. Someone in Thailand had set this up, had probably been planning it from the day the DEA had called Hawke in and offered him a job.

Hot anger speared through him, frustration making him want to hurl the phone out the car’s window. He tightened his hand around it and growled into the phone. “Look, Stone, if you don’t believe that I’m innocent we’ve got nothing more to say to each other.”

“I’m on your side in this, Hawke, but I’m standing alone. Whoever set you up did it perfectly. The fingerprints on the weapon have every cop in the contiguous United States looking for you.”

“What about the DEA?”

Noah’s hesitation spoke volumes. The Drug Enforcement Agency might have hired Hawke to bring down one of the most notorious drug dealers on the East Coast, but they didn’t trust him.

“So, they think I’m guilty.”

“They’re reserving judgment.”

“Until?”

“Until they talk to you and your accomplice.”

Hawke gritted his teeth, shot a look at Miranda. She was eyeing the phone as if a knight in shining armor might be on the other end of the line, ready to ride to her rescue. Unfortunately, Hawke was the only one riding anywhere and he was no knight. “Accomplice? You going to tell me who that is?”

“A woman. Apparently, the two of you have been seeing each other for several months. According to your coworkers at Green’s factory, you spent more time with her than with anyone else.”

“Green works fast.”

“If he didn’t, he would have been out of business and in jail years ago.”

It was true. One of the East Coast’s most successful drug traffickers, Harold Green was, by most people’s accounts, an upstanding citizen of Essex, Maryland. A churchgoer, city council member and business owner, he hid his true nature beneath a facade of respectability. The DEA had hired Hawke to infiltrate Green’s organization and to bring him down. He’d have succeeded if he hadn’t been betrayed.

Fury threatened to take hold, but he tamped it down. Losing control meant losing. And Hawke had no intention of doing that. “What else?”

“Word is, you were apprehended by a Maryland cop. Your accomplice took him by surprise, knocking him out, and you both escaped.”

“Any news of a second man involved in that?”

“No. Just Liam Jefferson. Why? Was someone else there?”

“Yeah. The director of one of Green’s funeral homes. Simmons. Randy.”

“Do you think we should be looking for another body?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll find one. Green is nothing if not thorough. He won’t leave any loose ends.”

“Including you.”

“Including me.” Or Miranda, but Hawke didn’t add the thought.

There was another moment of hesitation. “You know you need to turn yourself in.”

“Do I?”

“What other option do you have?”

“I can get back home, find out who set me up and get the evidence I need to prove it.”

“I take it you have an idea how this should be done?”

“You’ve got connections on both sides of the law. If I can make it down to your area, can you get me out of the country?”

“I’ve got some people that owe me favors. I’ll call them in. See what I can do.”

Hawke had hoped Noah would agree, but hadn’t been certain. Relief loosened his grip on the phone, eased some of the pounding pain in his head. “How long will it take?”

“Give me an hour.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re friends. I trust you. Just don’t let your need for revenge keep you from doing what’s right.”

“You’re telling me not to kill the person who set me up.” A few years ago, he might have. Hawke had changed since then. Stone was part of the reason for that, though Hawke doubted he knew it.

“Taking the law into your hands won’t solve anything, and it’ll only make more trouble for you.”

“This isn’t just about me anymore, Stone.” He glanced at Miranda, saw that she was watching with wide, dark eyes. “You’ve been pulled into it. So has the woman who’s with me. I won’t risk either of you for revenge. I give you my word on that.”

“One hour, then.” Noah disconnected and Hawke tossed the phone into Miranda’s lap.

Now that he had the means to get her out of harms way, he’d make sure she had reason to cooperate. Flying halfway around the world with someone determined to escape was low on Hawke’s lists of ways to keep from being noticed.

She stared down at the phone, but didn’t reach for it, her hands fisted at her side, her jaw set.

“Is there someone you want to call? Someone who might be worried?

“Yes.”

“Then call.” And if news was spreading as fast as Noah claimed, Miranda would hear just how much trouble she was in from someone she trusted.

Call? Miranda was sure Hawke would pull the phone from her hands as she lifted it, but he looked relaxed. Much more relaxed than he’d been before his phone call. He’d mentioned leaving the country. Maybe he planned to drop her off and let her return home. Miranda refused to contemplate anything else. She dialed, pressing the phone to her ear, her heart thrumming a frantic beat. Please, Lauren, pick up. For once be there for me.

“Hello?” Lauren’s voice filled the line, high-pitched and breathless.

“Lauren, it’s me. I—”

“Miranda! Thank goodness! Where are you?”

Miranda glanced at a road sign, almost gave her sister the exit number, but hesitated. There was an edge of hysteria in Lauren’s voice, a breathless quality to it that didn’t fit. It wasn’t like her to be overly concerned with anyone but herself. That she was so upset could only mean bad news. “What’s wrong, Lauren?”

“Wrong? You attack a police officer and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

Miranda went cold at her words, her back rigid with mounting tension. “How did you hear about that?”

“How do you think I heard about it? The police are here. They don’t take kindly to having one of their own knocked unconscious.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Liam—”

“Don’t say anything else, sis.” Her brother Max cut in, his voice such a welcome relief Miranda’s eyes burned with threatening tears.

“Max. I thought your plane wasn’t coming in until the morning.”

“I took an earlier flight. It’s a good thing I did. You’re in a lot of trouble, kid.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Max. This is all some kind of misunderstanding. I—”

“We’ll talk when you get home. The line is being monitored by the police. I don’t want you to say anything else until we’re face to face.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” But her palms were sweaty, her breath hitching with fear.

“You need to come home, Randa. Max and I are here for you. We’ll support you. No matter what. Max has found you a great lawyer. The best. I’ve already paid a retainer fee. It’s the least I could do.” Lauren’s words caught on a sob. “After all, this is my fault. The past few years…all your time spent caring for Justin. I should have known you needed more than that.”

“Your fault? What are you talking about? I went for a walk and—”

“Don’t say anything.” Max nearly shouted the words, his panic scaring Miranda more than all Lauren’s sobs could. Older than her by fifteen years, Max had been more father than brother to Miranda, a calm steadying influence in a chaotic, unstable home.

“Tell me what’s happening. Tell me what you think I did.” Miranda’s panic rose with Max’s.

“I don’t think you did anything. It’s the police who are accusing you.” Max bit out the words, his anger preferable to panic. “According to them, you’ve been dating a felon. The two of you plotted to steal fifty-thousand dollars from a DEA agent. The agent was found dead an hour ago.”

Miranda’s gaze leaped to Hawke. He’d said nothing about a murdered DEA agent. But then, he hadn’t said much about anything.

“Miranda? Are you still there?” Max’s words pulled her from her thoughts and she took a deep breath, trying to force a calm to her voice that she didn’t feel.

“I’m here. I haven’t been dating anyone, haven’t stolen anything. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve got plenty of friends who will verify that. All my time has been spent with Justin. You know that.”

“It isn’t about what I know or what I believe or even what you tell me is going on. It’s about proof. And right now the police have witnesses willing to testify that they saw you and their suspect together on more than one occasion.”

“What witnesses? What are you talking about?”

“Coworkers and friends. Add to that Sergeant Jefferson’s testimony—”

Miranda stiffened, her muscles so taut she thought they might shatter. “About what?”

“About seeing you and the suspect together at your bakery.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Yeah? Well right now, it’s his word against yours. He’s a police officer and here. You’re on the run with some guy who’s got a record a mile long. Who do you think seems more believable?”

“Max—”

“Tell me where you are, Miranda. I’ll come get you and we’ll work things out. I promise.” His tone was persuasive, the same one he’d used so often to try to convince Lauren to do the right thing. He’d never had to convince Miranda.

Even now, she wanted to respond, to tell him what he wanted to hear, but the words died on her tongue, her mind shouting a warning that she couldn’t ignore. Liam had already told his side of the story. The police believed him, Miranda’s family seemed to believe him and, as much as she’d like to believe that people would step forward to defend her, Miranda knew the truth was much more grim. Her friends knew too little about her life to say with any certainty how she spent her days. Taking care of Justin had required most of her time and energy. She’d had little of either left for friendship. If she returned home now, she’d be arrested.

Or worse.

And if that happened, Max would go after whoever had hurt her.

An image of Liam pointing a gun at Hawke flashed through her mind and she imagined Max on the other end of the barrel, imagined the loud crack of gunfire and her brother falling lifeless to the ground. She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t allow him to be pulled into danger with her.