Searing heat raked his lungs.
But his mind burned hotter with questions. Why hadn't the guy tried to kill one or both of them? What had he wanted?
Hunter couldn't believe after four years he'd stood within a few feet of the JC killer.
And let him walk away.
He looked down at Abbie, limp in his arms and a swelling knot on her head where the bastard had hit her. Who had she pissed off and how was she connected to all of this?
Tonight changed everything.
He'd have to get answers another way, dammit.
She had to vanish. Now.
Jackson moved carefully along the streets. He did everything carefully.
He'd pulled off his stocking cap and shoved the reinforced headgear into the backpack he'd retrieved at the rear of Abigail Blanton's apartment building.
His black clothing and gloves, also reinforced with bulletproof Kevlar armor, protected the only flaw in his honed body. Something the operative who had come to Abbie's defense would have liked to know.
There'd been a hint of something personal in the threat her rescuer had leveled. The cocky guy had no idea he'd been facing the Jackson Chameleon. How he'd gambled his mortality.
Most people figured that out a nanosecond before they died, which reminded Jackson he needed to request authorization to dispatch Abbie's protector.
He sent a brief text to his superior that another player had entered the game. And asked for authorization to engage.
The Fratelli allowed no unnecessary deaths or he'd have dropped both Abbie and her guard dog where they stood.
He got a text back that read, "Not yet. Determine whose interest he represents."
Jackson pressed the "K" text button and sent confirmation he'd received the reply. He huddled his coat close against the chill and kept to the dark side of the street.
He hadn't planned on allowing Abbie's friend to walk around alive even if the guy hadn't seen Jackson's face, but neither could he make an unsanctioned hit.
That just meant Abbie's friend couldn't literally die by Jackson's hand, but people died everyday that he didn't touch. All it took to have that happen was to first know enough about what mattered most to a person, then provide that person with choices.
Chapter Thirteen
Abbie's throat ached when she swallowed.
But not as much as the stabbing pain in her head.
She didn't want to wake up yet, hadn't rested well with the interruptions. Who had kept bothering her?
No chance of sleeping longer with this aching... When she reached up to touch her head her fingers bumped something cold. She pushed an ice pack aside and felt carefully, finding a lump.
What happened to her?
Blinking her eyes open in the dark, she looked around. Where was she? Recall came slowly, but the pieces began to link up, offering splattered images of how she got hurt. The last thing she remembered was being held in her apartment by a maniac with a gun and Hunter--also with a gun--showing up to rescue her.
For the second time in one night.
Who the hell was that Hunter?
When her eyes adjusted, pale blue lights glowing along the baseboards of the room offered enough visibility to make out the bedroom's boundaries. A small space, but nice. She pushed up on her elbows and had to swallow against nausea from the sudden dizziness.
Take a deep breath, exhale, and focus.
Her gaze strayed beyond the queen-size bed she was on to a lacquered-aluminum four-drawer chest on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. On the right of the chest a door opened into a bathroom--one positive discovery--and the short hall to the left of the chest ended with another door.
The exit?
She glanced up without moving her head. The low ceiling was curved from the baseboard on one side to the other across the top of the bed. No windows.
Everything smelled pristine or new, as if unused. The linens felt crisp. What kind of place was she in and who had her?
The crazy guy in her apartment. Who else?
What had he done to Hunter? Her heart squeezed. She'd reconciled herself to fighting the bastard, but knowing deep in her heart she'd lose the battle and suffer a hideous foreplay to death.
Then Hunter had appeared like an avenging angel.
Nothing in that picture made sense.
A rich guy who chauffeured people and handled a gun like James-Freaking-Bond.
Had she hallucinated the whole thing?
A gentle vibration seeped through the mattress. Listening closely, she detected the soft hum of a motor.
That felt too real to be hallucinating.
Abbie sat up and swung her legs out of bed. The room lurched along with her stomach. She clamped her teeth together and breathed through her nose until the possibility of throwing up passed. When had she hit her head? The intruder had held her by her hair, then let go... then a flash exploded... and something hit her head.
Probably the butt of his gun.
She hoped the thing backfired and blew his head off the next time he tried to shoot it.
Pushing the white coverlet aside, she got to her feet.... and realized she had on a filmy iridescent nightgown. She still wore her bra and panties. Nothing felt different physically, other than her headache and raw throat. She scanned the bed and found a matching robe had been draped across the other side. Donning the robe, she made her way to the bathroom, where the toilet flushed so loud she expected someone to rush in and catch her, but no one came.
She took a quick look in the mirror before leaving. Even the subtle lighting meant to enhance one's appearance didn't improve the angry red welt on her head. Her hair had been up for the party but now fell in stormy curls past her shoulders.
Party. Had Gwen lived?
Staying in here wasn't answering questions. Abbie padded out of the bathroom and over to the other door. When she reached for the handle the room moved.
"Dammit." Another movement like that and someone would have a mess to clean up. Was she on an airplane?
She opened the door to a badass-looking private ride.
Not like any small jet she'd ever flown in. The area beyond the bedroom resembled a long living room with bone-colored leather couches on the right and two captain's-seat-type reclining chairs on the left. Luxury scented the air. The aircraft moved forward along a tarmac strip she believed belonged to Chicago's Midway Airport.
She stood still, taking in slow breaths to fight off the panic attack rising from her abdomen.
Where were they taking her?
Her gaze skipped ahead to what appeared to be a meeting or dining space, where two mauve-and-tan thick-cushioned chairs anchored each end of a white-lacquered table.
Was this how killers traveled?
Screaming for help seemed stupid considering whoever had kidnapped her controlled the pilot. She couldn't jump out at this speed even if she figured out how to open the emergency door before they lifted off.
How had she gotten into this much trouble?
Where were they taking her?
Who were "they"?
As if in answer to her last question, the door at the opposite end of the cabin opened and... Hunter appeared. He'd changed from his tux into jeans and a navy sweater.
He frowned briefly at the sight of her and walked toward her. "What are you doing up?"
"What am I doing... are you serious?" She charged toward him, but he met her before she took three steps. Her head punished her for the quick movement. She clamped her hands on her head to stop her brain from sloshing.
He caught her by the waist, hands holding her carefully, as if she were an irritated egg. "You should lie back down."
Good advice, since her body trembled with fatigue and her stomach was making plans to decorate anything within projectile range. "What's... going on?" she demanded quietly.
The airplane started moving faster.
Hunter pulled her against his chest, holding her steady, his hand cupping her head. "You nee
d to get strapped in. Think you're going to get sick?"
She pushed a hand up and made a puny attempt at shoving him back. "Stop this plane."
"No."
"I'll scream."
"That won't stop the plane and might make you throw up." Hunter heaved a labored sigh. "You've got ten seconds to move to that chair." He pointed to the side of him. "Or I'll put you there."
She didn't move.
"Five seconds."
"Oh, all right, dammit." She pushed away from him. Between the movement of the airplane and her wavering equilibrium she stumbled sideways.
He caught her around the waist again and pulled her back to his chest. She groped at his arms, clutching for balance and furious at the weak-kneed feeling she fought.
"Shhh." Hunter stood unmoving as a steel beam, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. He held her steady and soothed her with whispered words when she wanted to rail at him.
When he asked, "Ready to sit down?" she gave in. For now.
She hated to feel meek. Had never been meek in her life, but she'd never been attacked and kidnapped either. Or shot at, even though she technically hadn't been the target.
So far.
Hunter carefully turned her around and lowered her into one of the recliners facing the sofa. He snapped her seat belt into place and flipped a lever that turned the chair to face forward. "This is the best position for takeoff."
She wanted to ignore his consideration, but the recliner supported her head, which liked being stable.
Not quite as nice as being held in Hunter's arms, but the next best thing.
Nice if not for that whole kidnapping part.
He dropped into the other recliner, but instead of spinning it forward he turned to face her and strapped in, then rested his elbow on the chair arm. He leaned his head over, supporting it with two fingers, his eyes taking her in with clinical interest.
Once the airplane lifted off and leveled out, she said, "Okay, now I want answers."
"That makes two of us. But I want ice on your head first." Hunter pressed a button on the side of his chair arm, then spoke into some hidden microphone. "Bring the ice pack and..." He paused to look at Abbie. "Anything else?"
She cocked an eyebrow at him that she hoped suggested she'd like his family jewels served on a silver platter.
He gave her a mildly amused look that added another black mark. "How about hot tea?"
"How about a shot of Jack Daniel's?"
Both of his eyebrows lifted at that, but he called in the order to whomever was delivering.
He might have saved her twice, but kidnapping wiped out his brownie points. Before she could press him again, a twentyish woman with short black hair entered the cabin from the same forward door Hunter had used.
He must have hit another button hidden on his chair. The doors of the dark wood cabinet affixed to the wall between their chairs opened and a table with cup holders slid sideways and up into place at arm's reach.
Abbie felt severely underdressed next to this woman's black pantsuit, pristine makeup, and ruby-lipped smile. But the young lady--their flight attendant?--acted as though all Hunter's guests wore filmy lingerie while traveling.
Maybe they did.
The flight attendant carried a sterling tray with an ice pack, a bottle of Jack, a glass with ice, and a white dish edged in gold filled with small sandwiches and crackers.
"Does she know you kidnapped me?" Abbie asked Hunter when the flight attendant served her drink.
The woman smiled at Hunter and walked away without a word, acting as though Abbie hadn't spoken.
Hunter gave her an indulgent glance. "Want anything else?"
"Do you really expect me to sit here and act perfectly okay with all this? I don't even know who you are."
He sat back and draped his arms along the chair, studying her for a moment. "I recognized something about you."
She hadn't expected that. Did they really know each other? "What?"
"The small mole on the inside of your left thigh."
That comment about the mole on her thigh shut Abbie up.
Hunter hoped he hadn't terrified her. Surely she realized he hadn't touched her. Well, other than carrying her from her apartment building to the car he'd parked down the street and putting the nightgown on her when he reached the jet. It was either the nightgown or put her in the bed half-naked. The only other clothes in the bedroom had been Todd's, which Hunter wore.
No way to avoid catching sight of the tiny mole on her thigh while handling her, which kick-started images flipping through his mind. And the killer had called her Abigail.
Abbie was Abigail.
He might have realized who she was sooner if he'd spent more than a few hours with her that night six years ago in Chicago. She'd been skinnier back when they met as well.
An unhealthy thin. And her hair had been straight and blond, not curly chestnut brown.
Everywhere he went women wore their hair straight, miles of silken strands that fell like a rushing waterfall.
But curls were interesting. Different. Soft. Pretty.
"I don't remember you." She shook her head and winced in pain.
He unclipped his seat buckle, picked up the icepack, and handed it to her. "You going to be sick?"
"Not if you stop asking me that." She snatched the pack and placed it against her forehead. "How do you know me, or are you just screwing with my mind?" She propped her elbow on the chair arm to support her head and closed her eyes.
"I'm not screwing with you. We met a long time ago."
She squinted at him, taking in his face and shoulders, down to his boots.
He could see why she hadn't recognized him either. He'd been at the end of a mission just outside of Chicago that required him to grow a beard and color it to match the dark brown dyed hair hanging to his shoulders.
A bloody mission that had resulted in losing a thread they were following on a string of "accidental" deaths of prominent citizens, one of which had close ties to the sitting president at that time. That was the first time BAD found one of the JC killer's titanium baby spoons. With three carved-up bodies, one of them a child. Hunter had debriefed in a local safe house, then went looking for something else to think about, to whitewash the pictures in his mind.
Abbie had walked into the bar where he'd decided to drink away the night. She strutted in wearing just enough screaming red dress to prevent an indecent-exposure arrest and cut loose a laugh he'd never forgotten.
He'd needed her smile and the tinkle of feminine laughter. Needed to look into turquoise eyes that weren't terrified of dying.
Those eyes were unforgettable, but he'd buried the memory somewhere safe, away from the hideous ones.
The more she drank that night, the funnier she got, even though he'd sensed something troubling her. She shielded her pain well, like now, when she tried to hide her trepidation and confusion. He didn't think she had a concussion, but he'd shaken her awake several times while she slept just to be sure. She still looked too damn pale.
"I'm not up for games." She took a sip of her drink, fixing him with a look of stubborn determination.
"Me either. I'll answer your questions after you answer mine," Hunter started. "How do you know Gwenyth Wentworth?"
"I don't know her."
"Then how did you end up in a private conversation with her when others wait three months to get on her calendar?"
"I told her I wanted to discuss the Kore Women's Center." Abbie took a longer drink of the whiskey. "What were you doing so close to her private patio when she got shot?"
"Not yet."
"Then I'm through talking." She lifted her legs and tucked them beneath her, looking like an abused fairy in all that iridescent material.
He'd have to come up with clothes before he handed her over to BAD. He couldn't take her into a room full of male agents wearing that. "How'd the guy in your apartment know your name?"
"I have no idea. I didn't recognize his voi
ce and I didn't know what he was talking about."
Every move in her face, eyes, and body said she was telling the truth. Or was one hell of a liar. She'd been terrified at Gwen's shooting and again in her apartment. Both had seemed like true responses. He'd give her the benefit of the doubt for now.
"You're in some kind of trouble, Abbie. If you let me, I'll help you. If not..." He opened his hands in a show of "what will be, will be." The JC killer had made the comment twice about Abbie being helpful tonight, but she hadn't acknowledged the statement. Hunter didn't think she knew what the killer meant, but she played some role in this and had to explain.
"I have no idea who that man was tonight. I have no idea why anyone would shoot Gwen. And I have no idea who you are or why you kidnapped me. That pretty much sums up what I know about all of this."
Hunter believed her on those points, but Abbie was still hiding why she'd met with Gwen. "Why did you threaten Gwen?"
Her eyes shifted away, looking past him at the floor and her glass, then she let the ice pack slide down to shield one eye. "I don't know what you're talking about."
She got the Worst Liar award.
Most women he knew had an inherent gift for reshaping the truth, but Abbie sucked at it.
He didn't have much time before they reached Nashville and he still had to alert Joe that he was bringing someone into headquarters. When Hunter drove Abbie home, he'd sent Carlos a text saying he was following the woman who had been with Gwen during the shooting. Carlos sent back that he'd forwarded her identification information to Gotthard, who would research her.
Joe would be pissed at Hunter for not informing Carlos that he was of transporting Abbie to headquarters, but Carlos might have wanted to send another team member with Hunter. This was the only chance Hunter had to get information out of her. Handing her over to Joe when they landed might negate some of the backlash. That plus delivering the USB memory stick from Linette, which was supposed to explain the Fratelli network and details on tonight's meeting. Hunter was to deliver the memory stick to headquarters by tomorrow morning, so arriving this far ahead of schedule would be a plus.
"Abbie, I need to know what you and Gwen were talking about. I can't explain why, but it's important to national security."