The Hunted. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ in Bill Maddox’s face had communicated the truth. She’d been investigating Mercator again, and only Bill, her news editor, had known. In theory, anyway. And his face said as plain as day that this was no simple staff reduction.

      Damn! She slammed her foot down hard on the next riser, so angry that she was grinding her teeth.

      Effing giant corporations. Damn money men. Damn the whole corporate plutocracy that America was becoming. They figured money and power meant they were above the law.

      She stomped down even harder on the next step. They’d taken all her files, of course, because anything she did on the job belonged to her paper. They’d taken her business laptop from her car and demanded to know if she’d kept any business-related information anywhere else.

      To do so would have been a violation of the paper’s strict policy. So of course she had lied through her teeth and said she hadn’t.

      Damned if she was going to tell them about the anonymous online file storage she’d started when she learned about the MMG purchase. She’d even gone so far as to go to a cybercafé to upload the info so there would be no record on any computer she used.

      So the bomb was still out there, despite their best efforts. At the moment, that was the only satisfaction she had, and it was a grim one. She could still nail Mercator to the wall once she finished her research.

      Reaching the landing outside her door, she leaned against the wall to hold the box in place while she fished through her vest pocket for her keys. Cell phone, extra pens, package of gum and, as always, way at the bottom, keys.

      She pulled them out, sorted through them and then pushed the proper one into the lock. Or tried to. The door swung inward even as she slid the key into the hole.

      Her heart froze. Someone had broken into her place. She stepped through the doorway and saw her things tossed about as if a raging tornado had blown through.

      She stood stunned, barely able to believe her eyes. At that moment, a man, his face hidden behind a ski mask, burst out of her bedroom. She dropped the box, one part of her mind questioning the utter absurdity of wearing a ski mask in Houston, and charged toward him, ready to head-butt him or knock his legs out or…well, something…but before she finished her first step, she knew she’d made a mistake.

      She’d exposed her back.

      A rustle behind her was all the warning she had. An instant later, stars burst before her eyes; then everything went black.

      She came to slowly, aware first of the excruciating pounding in her head, then, slowly, that she wasn’t alone. Hands felt gently around her head. She could feel warm goo on the back of her skull, and somewhere in her befuddled mind, the word blood registered.

      But in the instant between the dim recognition that she was bleeding and full consciousness, awareness of those hands sparked a surge of fear. Someone was touching her. With her sore nose pressed painfully to a rug that had never offered much of a cushion, she tried to gather her scattered thoughts.

      Break-in. Someone had hit her from behind. The fact that she could remember that much was a good sign. The concussion couldn’t be too bad.

      As she lay frozen, she tried to decide what to do about the person who was with her. If he was the one who had attacked her…

      Could she roll over fast enough? She realized she was still gripping her keys in the hand trapped beneath her body. Trying to keep her movements invisible, she slowly worked the keys between her fingers, turning them into a weapon.

      In the distance she heard sirens, or so she thought. She couldn’t be certain, because she heard ringing bells, too. What difference did it make, anyway? She hadn’t called the cops.

      Drawing a deep breath as silently as she could, battling the urge to sneeze as she inhaled whatever dust her vacuum had left in the rug, she rolled over swiftly and swung her fist and keys at the man who knelt beside her.

      Moving with the speed of a striking snake, he caught her wrist. “It’s okay,” he said. “FBI. You’re safe now.”

      Still holding her wrist, he reached toward his belt and pulled his badge clip free, holding it up. “Can you see?” he asked.

      She swallowed. “Yeah.”

      “Are you going to try to hit me again?”

      “No.”

      He let go of her wrist. “Don’t move,” he said. “The paramedics are on the way. I don’t know how bad you’re hurt. You have a scalp wound, and you were out for a while.”

      “There were two of them,” she said. “I saw one and went after him, but another one got behind me and hit me.” Just the memory of it made her mad, and the adrenaline kicked in again. “Damn it!”

      Ignoring the painful drumbeat in her head, she started to sit, but he caught her shoulders as she was halfway up. “Which part of ‘don’t move’ did you not understand?”

      As the room began to spin around her, she realized he was right. It was worse than being at sea during a storm. Her stomach lurched, and she turned her head, fighting back the urge to vomit.

      “Cancel the ambulance,” she said, slowly rolling onto her hands and knees, then crawling to her overturned couch and resting her cheek against the satiny fabric. If she could just make the world stop spinning, she would be fine. Really.

      “I’m not going to do that,” he said.

      “Are you going to pay the bill?” she asked, hearing herself almost mumble. “I don’t have insurance anymore.”

      “Why not?”

      “I got fired today.”

      She closed her eyes for a few moments, letting the world settle down. When she opened them again, he was still kneeling where he’d been, making no attempt to approach her. Late thirties, she guessed, with a carved, hardened look you didn’t often see on FBI agents, who spent most of their lives at desks. This one had spent some time in the elements. His expression was kind, though, his mossy-green eyes concerned.

      “Who are you?” she asked. “And what is the FBI doing in my living room?”

      “Special Agent Jerrod Westlake. I worked on the Mercator case. You’re going to testify on Monday.”

      Subject. Plus. Verb. Equals. Sentence. Except there was something missing. “That doesn’t explain you being here.”

      “I just heard that Mercator bought your newspaper. I figured it might be wise to make sure no one prevented you from testifying.”

      She leaned her head back. “Too late. I testified this morning. Then I was fired. Then I was robbed. If you’re supposed to be my knight in shining armor, you’re a little late. The joust is over, and I got skewered.”

      He shifted, sitting cross-legged. “So it would seem. Unless there’s something I don’t know.”

      Damned if she was going to tell him or anyone else. Right now, lying low and acting dumb seemed the smartest strategy, much as it flew in the face of her nature.

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