On Midnight Wings

24 APRIL FOOL’S DAY LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS THE GOLDEN CROWN INN

HEATHER SCANNED THE MOTEL room, looking for potential weapons or escape routes. One barred window framed by worn gold curtains, two queen-sized beds with matching gold comforters, a nightstand and lamp between them. Bathroom doorway. A TV. Dresser. Closet. Small desk.

Her gaze lingered on the bedside lamp. Potential weapon. Check.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said.

“Nobody’s stopping you,” Roberts said. “Just leave the door open.”

Heather heard a solid click behind her, followed by the thunk of the security latch as either Roberts or his partner, DeAgostino, locked the place up. The room smelled like a thrift store—musty, used, and steeped in Pine-Sol and old cigarette smoke—despite the brief infusion of fresh air from outside.

“I need you to take these off so I can,” Heather said, turning and lifting her cuffed hands. Arched her eyebrows. “C’mon, guys. Just while I’m in the bathroom. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I have absolutely zero desire to be tased again. Give me a break.”

Roberts shook his head. “You can do your business with them on.”

“Look, I want to wash up a little too, plus take care of the wounds on my back. I can’t do that with these.” Heather swiveled her wrists. Light glinted from the steel braceleted around them. “I give you my word—I’m not going anywhere. All I want is to wash up, get something to eat, then crash.”

“Food sounds pretty damned good, actually,” DeAgostino grunted.

Roberts glanced at his watch. “It’s after two. Not much will be open.”

“I noticed a Denny’s when we hit town. Can always get food to go.”

“Works for me,” Roberts agreed. “But first . . .” He studied Heather with penetrating blue eyes, his expression dubious. “Let’s see these so-called wounds.”

“Okay,” Heather said, offering him her back. “But you’ll have to do the honors.”

Cool air brushed her skin as Roberts lifted the hem of her sweater. The puncture wounds had stopped bleeding hours ago, but they still throbbed, as did her ankle.

He whistled low. “What do you think, partner? A tiny vampire with four fangs?”

“Or someone checking to see if she was ready to come out of the oven yet.”

Heather rolled her eyes. “Comedians.”

Gently lowering her sweater, Roberts asked, “So what happened?”

Heather looked at him from over her shoulder. She knew she walked a thin line. A little bit of resigned cooperation might lower their guard, but too much would make them suspicious. “Does it matter?” she asked, voice flat.

Roberts shrugged. “Not really. Just curious.”

Without another word, he strode past her and into the bathroom. Heather heard the plastic rustle of the shower curtain being pushed aside, the porcelain clunk of the toilet lid. After a moment, Roberts came back out, carrying an iron. He waggled it at her, a smirk on his lips.

“Aw, damn,” Heather murmured. “A shame you found that. I had something I needed to press.”

“I can just imagine,” he retorted, opening the door and setting the iron outside on the sidewalk. After closing and relocking the door, he walked over to Heather and unlatched the cuff from her right wrist. The other he left untouched. He tucked the key back into a pocket of his dark brown fleece jacket.

“Thanks.” Heather rubbed her freed wrist, feeling genuine relief as she limped, ankle throbbing, into the bathroom. Her need hadn’t been just an excuse—well, not entirely.

“Leave the door open,” Roberts reminded. “And don’t worry, no one’s going to peek while you tinkle.”

Once inside, Heather could see why Roberts had no problem sending her in uncuffed. The window was not only barred, but too small to slither through even if it hadn’t been, unless you were, say, three. Plus there was nothing she could use as a weapon, unless—

She studied the small coffeemaker on the counter surrounded by plastic-wrapped mugs, premeasured packets of coffee, tea, and sweeteners. Possibility tingled against her spine. The carafe looked solid—this could work. When the time came. At the moment, a glass coffee carafe and a can-do attitude wasn’t enough to face down two SB agents armed with guns and Tasers. But one SB agent? Just the right number. She kept her fingers crossed that one of the men would head out in a quest for food.

The sooner the better.

She knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. She couldn’t let them take her to Alexandria, Dante beyond her reach. He was south of her now; she felt it in her heart and mind—a magnetic pull directing the compass within.

She wondered if he felt an opposite pull to the north.

I’ll bet anything that he does.

Going to the sink, Heather turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm up. She ached all over. Between the struggle with James and being tased, she felt bruised and sore, exhausted. She’d managed to sleep a couple of hours during the drive over from Dallas, but it hadn’t been restful or nearly enough.

She sighed as she looked at the white porcelain bathtub. She’d love nothing more than a long, hot shower to ease her hurts and massage the kinks out of her muscles, but no way would she risk it. Naked and vulnerable with a couple of SB agents in the next room? She snorted. Only in bad movies.

Instead, Heather peeled off her sweater at the sink, draping it over the towel bar. Shivering in her lavender bra, she washed up with warm water and a little cake of perfumed soap, then used a soapy washcloth on her back—rinsing and resoaping until it no longer came back pink.

“Hey, Wallace, I’m heading off on a food run to Denny’s,” DeAgostino called. “What do you want?”

Heather straightened, relief flooding through her at hearing the words she’d been hoping for, and finished drying off with a rough, white towel. She was famished and deeply regretting the meal she’d ignored at the institute. Everything and anything sounded delicious—even the word food had her salivating.

But if all went well, she wouldn’t be here to eat it when it arrived.

“Grilled cheese with fries and a side salad,” she said. “A vanilla shake would be great too.”

“A shake,” DeAgostino repeated. “Good idea. Think I’ll have one too.”

“You about done in there?” Roberts asked.

“Almost.” Heather quickly tugged her sweater back on.

“You’re not the only one who needs a pit stop,” he grumbled. “So hurry up, will ya? Christ. Chicks and bathrooms.”

Heather’s fingers curled around the sink’s cool, wet edge. He’d cuff her to a chair the moment she stepped from the bathroom. No way he’d leave her able to move around while he was using the john.

A moment later, the front door thunked shut, then Heather heard a car engine roaring to life out in the parking lot. Her pulse kicked into high gear. She and Roberts were alone.

Leaving the faucet running to camouflage any noise, she sidled over to the coffeemaker. She carefully pulled the carafe free. Water would give it more heft, but he would hear her filling it up. And that would put him on alert. Bring him into the doorway, Taser already in hand.

No water. She couldn’t risk it.

Heather tightened her grip on the carafe’s handle and leaned against the threshold, angling her body to hide the carafe. Roberts sat at the desk, checking his cell phone for messages.

“Okay, it’s all yours,” she said, pleased that her voice remained level despite the tension thrumming through her body. “And in your case? Please feel free to close the door.”

“Ha-ha. Another comedian.”

“By the way, the faucet won’t turn off. At least, I can’t get it to turn off.”

“Christ,” Roberts muttered. “Damned cheap motels.” He stuffed his cell phone into a jacket pocket, then rose to his feet and headed for the bathroom.

Heart drumming, Heather watched his approach. “Maybe you should just call the manager,” she suggested.

“Oh sure, you’d like that, huh?” Roberts said as he reached the doorway. “Give you a chance to claim you’d been kidnapped—”

Heather swung up the carafe and slammed it into the SB agent’s temple. His words cut off and he staggered back a step, expression stunned, pained. She immediately clocked him again, then a third time. Roberts stumbled backward, then fell hard on his ass. Blood smeared his temple, dripped down to his jaw. A thick, coppery odor threaded into the air.

Heather lifted the blood-smeared carafe for a fourth blow, but the handle snapped off, sending it rolling across the carpet. Roberts, dazed and blinking, scrabbled for the Taser clipped at his belt. Or for his gun.

Roberts was supposed to bring her in alive, of that much Heather was sure. But given his current pummeled-by-a-coffee-carafe state, she had a suspicion that might be a hard fact for him to hold on to.

A snap-kick to the chin knocked Roberts flat and clacked his teeth together. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, out cold. Pulse roaring in her ears, Heather bent and fumbled both his Taser and Glock free from their holsters.

A quick search of his jacket produced the handcuffs key. She quickly freed herself, then cuffed Roberts to a leg of the nearest gold comforter-draped bed. Scrambling to her feet, Heather tucked the Glock into her jeans at the small of her back, covering it with her sweater, but kept the Taser in hand.

She hurried over to the desk and picked up Roberts’s cell phone. She could call Annie, then speak to Von, but she didn’t want to remain here while she did. And taking it with her would be too risky. GPS, sure, but she had no idea what else SB agents might have attached to their phones.

Heather tossed the cell back onto the desk. Nope. Not worth the risk. She’d rather try her luck at borrowing a phone from a friendly stranger. Outside, a diesel engine rumbled, the sound vibrating like a heavy bass note into the room.

Roberts groaned. Stirred.

Time to go.

Heather unlocked the door, then raced out into the chilly night air, teeth gritted against the bolt of pain from her ankle. She slowed to a limping walk when she saw the bus—ALL SAINTS GOSPEL TOUR!—in the parking lot and the presumed saints climbing down from it, trudging wearily to the manager’s office. The pungent odors of diesel fuel and exhaust permeated the air.

Suddenly aware of the Taser she held, Heather stuffed it into the front of her jeans, underneath her sweater. She kept walking, edging toward the parking lot’s shadows as she wiped cold sweat from her forehead and combed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to look normal. Nonmemorable.

A vehicle turned into the parking lot, its halogen headlights blinding Heather with blue-infused brilliance. The relief she felt when she realized it was a car and not the rented SUV the SB agents were driving died quickly. The car steered past the bus and the little knots of people from the bus and pulled alongside her.

Heather halted, pulse pounding in her throat, and pulled the Glock free from the back of her jeans. She held the gun at her side, ready to swing it up, if necessary.

A window hummed down.

“Wallace,” a woman said. Faint Italian accent. A voice Heather recognized.

“Cortini,” Heather breathed. “How the hell did you find me?” Not that it mattered, she wasn’t about to look a gift assassin in the mouth. This time her relief was so intense, it nearly took her knees out from under her.

Caterina shrugged. “SB agents on an expense account are very predictable. Let’s get you out of here before reinforcements arrive.”

Hurrying around to the passenger side of the car, Heather slid inside. “Talk about perfect timing,” she said with a quick smile. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” Caterina countered with a smile of her own as she guided the Nissan out of the parking lot. “You just made things a lot easier for me too.”