Witness on the Run Read online

  Reluctantly, she followed in Sheila Marie’s footsteps. “Start talking.”

  “Last week, when I was doing surveillance on you, I saw you come here. You bought beignets and drank a cup of chicory coffee. And then you walked a couple of blocks until you got to that old brick building halfway down the block with the painted advertisement for Zatarain’s on the wall. You purposely walked past, then came back and went to the office where you paid cash for something to the guy at the front desk.”

  Why hadn’t she noticed him? The whole reason she’d paused for coffee was to observe the area and make sure she wasn’t being followed. “I must be blind.”

  “After you left, I checked with the office. You’re renting a storage space in that building. Don’t worry, I didn’t break into it.” He tugged her forward. “Quit dragging your feet, cher. We need to hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “As soon as you got in line for the Canal streetcar, I knew where you were headed. That’s when I alerted Sheila Marie, who was close enough to intercept you. If I can figure out your escape plan, so can others.”

  Every word he said was logical. He was making sense, and she had to believe that her enemies could be here right now, watching and waiting. She might have ridden that cheerful red streetcar into a trap.

  Chapter Five

  Rafe’s warning had the effect he wanted. He saw a glimmer of fear in her green eyes. Alyssa was still angry, no doubt about that, but she was also scared and she had good reason to be. If somebody was searching for her, they might have followed the same markers that led him to Canal Street.

  Her gaze darted as she searched Café du Monde, trying to see the possible danger that might lurk among the mostly empty tables and twinkle lights. With the black Saints T-shirt hanging down to her knees and her hair a mass of tangles and the vestiges of ghost makeup on her face, she looked miserable and raggedy. Not like a person who belonged in this warm, fragrant bakery. Her voice creaked when she spoke. “Did you see anyone?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “They could be anywhere,” she whispered.

  Sheila Marie handed Alyssa a cardboard cup of chicory coffee, looked up at him and said, “You’d best find a place where Missy Alyssa can catch a few winks. This little birdie is ready to drop.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Alyssa pleaded with her. “You have to tell me about the silver-haired woman. She looked like my mom. And when she laughed, I heard my mom. I can’t come so close and have her slip away.”

  “Hush now, honey.” In a swoop, Sheila Marie gathered her into a one-arm embrace while holding her own coffee in her other hand. She spoke in warm, musical tones. “Your mama passed a few years back.”

  Rafe couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned that detail to Sheila Marie, but he must have said something. Either that or his CI had hooked into her psychic abilities. Her voice was gentle but firm. “You listen to me, missy. Right now, you got to do like I tell you.”

  “But I—”

  “Straighten up.” She kissed Alyssa’s forehead. “Come along now.”

  Sheila Marie shepherded them through the kitchen, where a minimal staff worked at a leisurely pace. A beignet is always better when eaten fresh; the bakers couldn’t stockpile dozens in advance and had to keep cooking. The staff watched through droopy eyelids as Sheila Marie escorted their little group through the kitchen and out a side door.

  Rafe hadn’t been able to make Alyssa budge, but Sheila Marie had everything under control. Contacting her was the smartest move he could have made. Instinctively, Alyssa seemed to trust the other woman. Never would she have allowed Rafe to take the lead. Malchance, it was bad luck for him. At times like this, he missed working for the FBI, where nobody questioned orders. They simply obeyed. Alyssa needed to accept his leadership. He couldn’t be expected to choreograph a song-and-dance routine every time a decision had to be made.

  Leaving the restaurant, they navigated through the streets until they came to a stop, huddled in a doorway. In a low murmur, he said, “Remember that you’re in danger, cher.”

  “I know.”

  “The men in masks tried to drag you off into the night.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You can’t go jumping out the window of my safe house and running away. It’s not safe.”

  “I don’t trust you.” In the reflected glow from a streetlamp, he watched her brow furrow as she continued, “This isn’t your problem, Rafe. It’s mine, and I can take care of myself. I have plans. I’ve made arrangements.”

  “Bless your heart,” Sheila Marie said. “You got a former FBI agent who’s over six feet tall and as pretty as he can be. Let him shoo away the bad guys.”

  Under his breath, Rafe said, “I’m not the only one who wants to protect her.”

  “Are you saying there’s somebody bigger and badder than you?” Sheila Marie took a bite from her beignet, sending up a cloud of powdered sugar. “Do tell.”

  “WitSec.” He focused on Alyssa. “Why haven’t you called them?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “I’m not inclined to play guessing games.”

  “And I’m not going to tell you.”

  Stubborn, difficult woman! How had she survived until now? It wasn’t easy to qualify for witness protection. Her refusal to take advantage of the well-run, efficient program must to be due to something more than orneriness. He glanced across the street. Halfway up the block was the tired old building he’d seen her enter. “Give me your key and tell me what you want me to take from your storage locker.”

  “I’ll get it myself.”

  This was exactly the sort of situation he wanted to avoid. Rafe didn’t want to waste time by listing the many reasons why she shouldn’t act alone, starting with the obvious fact that she wasn’t armed. If ambushed inside the storage building, she would need backup. A lookout on the street would be useful.

  “Sheila Marie, I’d appreciate if you’d wait at the café and watch for suspicious characters.” As if on cue, two zombie princesses walking a spotted Great Dane sashayed down the street. Half the city was suspicious-looking, but he trusted his CI to recognize real danger when she saw it.

  When he reached down and took the gun from his ankle holster, Alyssa asked, “What’s that?”

  “A Glock 43 nine millimeter.”

  “I know it’s a gun,” she said. “I thought you were the type who carried a stun gun.”

  “I’m former FBI,” he reminded her.

  “Didn’t you use a stun gun on the three skeletons?”

  “I suit the weapon to the occasion. You’re in serious trouble, cher.” When he met her gaze, he silently repeated a mantra: Don’t come with me into the warehouse, don’t come with me, don’t come... Aloud, he warned, “You should stay with Sheila Marie. Do as she says.”

  She shook her head, and her tangled curls bounced. “Compromise? I won’t go in there alone. You can come with me. We need to go around to the back.”

  He waited for the headlights of a delivery van to pass before he stepped off the curb into the street with Alyssa close at his side. In spite of a slight limp, she moved athletically. From the first time he’d seen her, he’d known that she was healthy and fit. Part of her daily regimen always involved exercise. He’d enjoyed watching her workouts—a detail he would never share with her. She had already called him a stalker. He didn’t want to graduate to pervert. A flagstone courtyard between the four-story Zatarain’s building and the two-story neighbor to the left made it easy to access the loading dock at the rear. Up a short flight of concrete steps was a door. Before he could reach for the handle, Alyssa elbowed him out of the way.

  “I’ve got this,” she said.

  On the back side of a metal post beside the door was a small box with a combination lock. With a few flicks of the wrist, she had it open. The key inside opened
the door. Before entering, she slipped the key back into the box and closed it.

  “You made arrangements,” he said. “Smart.”

  “I figured I might need to get to my storage unit at odd hours. I pay extra every month for the lock combination.”

  He followed her into the warehouse. The silence hung heavily. The stink of dirt and rat droppings oozed from the brick walls. A faint glow from high windows thinned the darkness, but it was still hard to see anything but edges and shadows. He took a slim Maglite from his jacket pocket. The beam spotlighted a beat-up wooden desk, a couple of file cabinets and concrete floors that created a maze through the rows of boxes, lockers and storage units.

  He didn’t hear any other sounds and figured they were alone. Still, he didn’t want to take chances. “Don’t turn on the lights.”

  “You didn’t happen to bring another flashlight, did you?”

  “Pardonnez-moi, but no.”

  “How much can I take from storage?”

  “Only as much as you can carry.” He had to wonder what she’d packed into her unit. What items did she consider necessary to survival?

  “You know,” she said, “it would be easier if I had the flashlight. I’m the one who knows where we’re going.”

  No argument. He handed over the Maglite. “I’m right behind you.”

  She set a vigorous pace, charging along a straight four-foot-wide path between wall lockers and smaller center units. At the end of the building, she made a sharp right. They stood in front of a freight elevator with an ancient wood-slat door that rolled up like a garage. She lifted it and stepped inside.

  “C’mon,” she said. “My locker is on the second floor.”

  He hated the idea of being trapped inside the rickety old elevator but didn’t want to waste time arguing. Though the elevator was a wide area, designed to move large objects from one floor to the next, he felt tense and crowded. Under his lightweight leather jacket, he was sweating. When she pulled down the door and hit the button for the second floor, the machinery rumbled like ten swamp gators with indigestion.

  “Too loud,” he said, wishing he’d figured that logic earlier. “If anyone is here and planning an ambush, they know exactly where we are.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I should have considered that.”

  As soon as the elevator door opened, he scooted out. Carelessly, he bumped her leg. When she winced and gasped, he jumped back and cursed himself for being so clumsy. Just a few hours ago, she’d been knocked around by those men in skeleton masks. Her bruises had had enough time to ripen.

  “The pain,” he asked, “is it bad?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a long soak in a hot bath.”

  Though her quest to escape infuriated him, he had to admire her bravado. In spite of injuries and fear, her determination remained strong. She deserved every effort he could make to protect her.

  The second floor of the warehouse was even more dreary and dark than the first. A few barred windows spilled light across rusted storage units. The big, square, filthy aluminum doors had numbers stenciled on the scarred, peeling paint. Her unit was 224.

  She passed him the Maglite and reached under her giant T-shirt to retrieve her wallet and key chain. He focused the light so she could see where to unlock her unit.

  “It’s a five by five,” she said. “I figured this was all the space I need.”

  The first thing he saw when she lifted the door was a sleek, shiny ten-speed bike that looked like it had never been ridden. She turned on the bare bulb light inside the unit, and he saw a tower of plain cardboard boxes pressed up against brand-new camping gear, still in the box. There was a tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, a lantern and miscellaneous tools, some with the price stickers still attached. Labels on other boxes showed premade food that was “better than the MRE.”

  He picked up a small hatchet. “Have you done much camping?”

  “Not since I was a little girl and visited my grandparents in Georgia.”

  “How did you choose this equipment? Why?”

  “I thought it might be a good idea to hide out in the backwoods. So I went to a sporting goods store and asked the salesman to give me all the gear I might need to survive for a month.”

  Rafe hoped the clerk had been working on commission. Providing the high-quality camping supplies this naive Yankee woman might need must have been an expensive proposition. “Did you happen to buy a gun?”

  “Two of them,” she said, “but I don’t keep them here.”

  She climbed around the boxes and grabbed the heavy-duty straps on a gigantic backpack. As soon as she had access, she unzipped a small pocket on the side of the pack, dug inside and pulled out a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever. While she found a crate of bottled water in her space and helped herself, his cell phone buzzed, indicating he had a text message. Very few people had this number, which was specially encrypted so he couldn’t be tracked or called unless he wanted to be.

  He stepped away from her unit and checked his phone. The text came from Davidoff in Chicago. It was brief: Alyssa is missing. What do you know?

  Rafe didn’t reply. The message bothered him. Alyssa had been attacked by the three skeletons only a few hours ago. Already, Davidoff knew she’d gone off the grid. Where was he getting his information? Was somebody else keeping an eye on her? If others were involved, Davidoff should have informed him. Not that Rafe had expected ethical treatment from the infamous crime boss. Davidoff was no Boy Scout.

  He glanced back toward the storage unit in time to see Alyssa strip off the oversize Saints T-shirt and change into a brown polo from her backpack. She’d already replaced her raggedy bloomers with a pair of jeans. Perched on the edge of a cardboard box, she changed into sneakers. With the addition of a denim jacket, her outfit was complete. Nondescript and practical, she’d blend in with any crowd. He couldn’t explain why he preferred the zombie Scarlett clothes, but he did.

  “Who was on the phone?” she asked.

  “It was just a text.” If she had been more forthcoming with him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to share information.

  “We should go,” she said. “I have a hotel where you can drop me off.”

  Not a chance. She might think a local hotel was safe, but he doubted it. Rafe wouldn’t abandon her to whatever thugs or skeletons might be on her trail. When they left this storage unit, he’d take her back to his safe house with the fully functional alarm system. On this issue, he refused to listen to any objection. Her safety was top priority. Either she came with him or she went to WitSec.

  She hefted the backpack, which was almost as big as she was, onto her shoulders, grabbed the Maglite and staggered to the end of the row, where a casement window allowed a square of moonlight to spill across the concrete floor. This window started at her waist and went vertical for four feet. In summer, it could be cranked open and used for ventilation.

  Alyssa peered through the grungy panes of glass. “Oh, no.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” He moved down the aisle toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  She pointed to the window. “There’s a man across the street. I recognize him.”

  He peered through the window. The silhouette of a man—average height and weight—was readily visible. Though dressed in black, this guy wasn’t good at fading into the shadows. He stood just outside the alley with the streetlamp illuminating his features. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s the man behind the skeleton mask that I pulled off. I realized that I’d seen him before, but it wasn’t until just now that I recalled his name.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Hugh Woodbridge,” she said.

  His phone buzzed again. He glanced down at a text from Sheila Marie that said, Three bad guys incoming. Get out!

  Across the street, he saw two others join Woodbridge. “Why do y
ou know this man?”

  Her voice was a strangled whisper. “I saw him in the offices at WitSec.”

  That explained why she couldn’t call witness protection for assistance. She’d been betrayed. “Woodbridge is a US marshal.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Bad news for her...for both of them.

  Chapter Six

  Alyssa watched Woodbridge and his two colleagues saunter across the street toward the warehouse. They were coming after her again. She’d been running on adrenaline ever since she regained consciousness, and her energy was almost depleted. Her backpack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her vision was foggy. Her bruises ached. Escape from this warehouse without Rafe’s help would be nearly impossible. At this point, she had to trust him, even though he was an admitted pirate/ex–federal agent/private eye who’d been hired by an unnamed shady character to spy on her.

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “Do you have a plan?”

  He took the Maglite from her hand and replaced it with his Glock 43. “Don’t shoot unless I tell you.”

  No need to worry about that. She’d never fired a gun at a living being and doubted she’d be able to start now. “Is the safety on?”

  “Don’t touch the trigger, and you’ll be fine.”

  She followed him back to her storage space, where he used the flashlight to dig through her belongings until he found what he was looking for—a generous length of woven blue rope and a couple of those metal clippy things. He pulled down the door to her unit, closed it and locked it. “You ought to send a thank-you note to the sales clerk who ordered your gear. I doubt you asked for rock-climbing equipment.”

  “Rock climbing?”

  “The rope and carabiners,” he said. “These supplies might save us.”

  Before she could open her mouth to ask questions, she heard loud noises from downstairs. A door being flung open? The heavy tread of men in boots? They’d broken into the building.

  Now was the time for action. And Rafe didn’t hesitate. He seemed comfortable giving orders, which, she supposed, was SOP for FBI agents or captains of pirate ships. Whichever identity suited him was fine with her. Too nervous to think or plan, she fell into line, ready to do whatever he said.