Never Say Never Again Page 16

  He took a deep breath. And, surprisingly, felt as though a one-ton weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Now that he’d been forced to accept their help, he was glad they were there. Suddenly things didn’t appear quite so dire. In fact, he was becoming increasingly convinced that together, they could beat this thing.

  He stared at the cement beneath his boots, then cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  The only sounds were those made by a dive-bombing blue jay near the cars.

  “But?” David prompted.

  Connor looked up at him. “But nothing.” The grin he’d been fighting since he saw them all piled up on the steps looking like a posse from some old John Wayne western broke out all over his face. “I accept.”

  Three of his brothers grinned back at him and Jake stepped forward to drape an arm around his shoulders. But Marc…well, Marc looked disappointed that physical force wouldn’t be involved.

  “Damn,” Marc said, trailing behind them as they headed for the vehicles. “I was hoping to get even for all those times you hammered me.”

  David laughed. “Sorry, bro, but it looks like you’re going to have to wait until next time for that.”

  All of them stopped right where they were, then turned to stare silently at the youngest McCoy.

  “What?” he asked, innocently.

  “Bite your tongue, David. God willing, there won’t be a next time.”

  Mitch was the first to move as he opened the truck’s driver-side door. “This one’s not over yet, guys. And if we keep dragging ass, it’s not going to be, either. Now get your rear ends into gear and let’s get going.”

  Without another word, all of them climbed into their respective vehicles, the air filling with the clap of closing doors, starting engines and spitting gravel.

  And for the first time since Melissa Robbins was murdered, Connor began to believe that everything would be okay. It couldn’t help but be. The McCoy men were together again.

  BRONTE PRESSED THE disconnect button on her cell phone, then clapped it closed and slipped it into her purse, growing more anxious by the second. Almost unconsciously, she tightened her grip on that same purse, for it held more than her cell phone. It held all the evidence she hoped would clear Connor’s name.

  Over an hour had passed since her revelation at the courthouse. Sixty-five minutes of pure torture as she’d tried calling everywhere and everyone, searching for Connor—including each and every one of his brothers. She hadn’t been able to contact a single one. And her attempts to make contact with Connor through the U.S. Marshal’s office had yielded nothing but a stone wall. Normally, knowing they had tried to protect Connor from anyone asking questions from the U.S. attorney’s office would have satisfied her. But now…

  Well, now they were hurting him more than helping him.

  She peeked at the time. Five till twelve. Twisting the plain silver watch she bought while grocery shopping the day before yesterday around and around her wrist, she scanned the spattering of people leaving the courthouse. At this time of day there were few people entering. Lunchtime. She glanced behind her to make sure Connor hadn’t somehow gotten by her in the last ten minutes, then blew out a long breath, turning back toward the twenty or so cement steps below her.

  As she bit down hard on her bottom lip, she couldn’t ignore the irony of the situation. All her life she had hoped to find that one man who would be as good as his word. Who would make promises and keep them. Now that she was convinced she had found him, she was actually wishing he would be just like the rest of them—or at least more like Thomas Jenkins—and have lied to her. But no matter how much she wished it so, it wouldn’t happen. Connor trusted her. And she trusted him. Implicitly.

  Considering what she’d gone through in her former relationship, it was a major mile marker, that one—the ability to trust another man. But Connor wasn’t just any other man. He was a man’s man—or, more importantly, a woman’s fantasy. The kind of guy most women didn’t dare even dream about. Oh, he was stubborn as hell. And probably told himself in the mirror every morning that he didn’t need what other men needed, probably even recited some sort of bachelor oath. But that didn’t fool her, not anymore. When a man like Connor loved, he loved completely. And the mere idea that he might love her let loose a whole battalion of butterflies in her stomach.

  Butterflies whose wings were instantly clipped when she remembered his quiet, but vehement words last night. He wasn’t interested in marriage or having children. Two important elements that made a couple a family. Could she learn to accept those limitations? Or would she fool herself into believing she might be able to sway him to her way of thinking?

  She looked around the steps and swallowed thickly, reminding herself where she was and what she was afraid was going to happen, and berating herself for her rash decision to convince Connor to turn himself in.

  She bounced on her heels slightly, feeling like she could jump out of her skin at any moment.

  Then she went completely still. She realized that someone was noticeably absent from the steps: Dennis Burns.

  Her mind clicked. Why, after all he had gone through to finagle the Pryka case from her, and to have an arrest warrant issued in Connor’s name, would he not be present for the arrest? She looked toward the boulevard, also finding it eerily quiet. Where were the news vans? The reporters? The media that would make Burns a local hero?

  Her heartbeat slowed to a near stop as she counted off each of the unusual details. Oh, God. She closed her eyes, reciting a prayer. Please, Connor, whatever you do, don’t step a foot near this courthouse.

  A brief, piercing flash near one of the courthouse columns caught her attention. She twisted around, spotting an armed law official wearing full, black riot gear.

  Her pulse leaping off the charts, she turned to her right, catching sight of another rifle as the sunlight glinted off the long oiled barrel.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  She remembered the words on the warrant. “Armed and extremely dangerous.” Secret code words for shoot first, ask questions later. A directive that worked straight into Dennis Burns’s hands if what she suspected was true.

  Burns wasn’t there because he had no intention of Connor being taken alive.

  Her feet flew into action. What to do, what to do? A part of her wanted to approach the armed gunmen, demand they put down their weapons. But she knew from experience that these guys never traveled alone, especially not in connection with a case like this. There was probably a whole brigade hidden behind every column and on every rooftop in sight.

  Her throat refused her access to air as she climbed the remainder of the stairs leading to the courthouse doors. What had she done? She had been so wrapped up in doing the right thing she hadn’t stopped to consider what could happen as a result.

  She had done exactly what she promised she wouldn’t do. Her actions had essentially set up a trap. And one very endearing Connor McCoy was the unwitting mouse.

  She yanked open the courthouse door, stepped through the metal detector, then practically ran down the hall. If Connor was going to approach from the front, maybe his not seeing her there waiting, as she’d said she would, would stop him from coming up.

  Or maybe it would just make him come inside, looking for her.

  Oh, God.

  Pivoting on her heels, she headed back for the door, clutching her bag tightly to her side. The bag held the evidence she needed to clear Connor’s name. But what good would any of it do if Connor wasn’t alive to be cleared?

  She took the steps faster than she should have, her low heels clicking against the cement and echoing through the mall below. Every single last hair on her body stood on end as though she had just been zapped by static electricity. Knowing that, right now, she was in the crosshairs of at least two, probably more, high-powered rifles made her want to rush around the corner and retch.

  Out of breath and with a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin, caused both by the exertion an
d her fear, she looked both ways down the street. What should she do? Where should she go? Was there some way to warn Connor away, short of making a sign?

  “Walk down a block the other way, then turn right.”

  Bronte jumped at the sound of the quiet male voice so near her ear. As the man continued walking, she noticed his dark blue officer’s uniform and his dark-blond hair. David!

  Her heart expanded in her chest. Connor wasn’t coming! And not only wasn’t he coming, obviously he had finally turned to his family for help. For the first time in long, tormenting minutes, she felt a surge of hope.

  She stood on the curb for another long minute, feigning interest in the traffic rushing by, then looked at her watch. Heaving a heavy, obvious sigh for the benefit of those who were watching, she started to walk in the opposite direction David had gone, forcing herself not to look after him.

  Just act like everything’s normal, Bronte, she told herself, knowing that she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. Now that Dennis Burns knew Connor was in contact with her, she was probably under heavy surveillance and probably had been since that morning when she’d sprung the news on him. She tightened her fingers on the strap of her purse, realizing they probably already had her cell phone tapped. She cringed. That meant they knew of every single number she had called trying to get word to Connor.

  Her feet automatically carried her, but she wasn’t sure that doing as David had asked was such a good idea. It was her fault all this was happening. Her fault that she had placed Connor in even greater danger than he had been on his own. And by going to him now—and she was sure that’s what she was doing—she’d be leading Dennis Burns, and whatever law agencies he’d enlisted for help, right to him.

  Her stomach leaden, she realized she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t cause more trouble than she already had.

  Instead of making a right at the next crossroads as David had instructed, she made a left and picked up her pace. If she couldn’t help him, at least she could make sure she couldn’t hurt him.

  A block down, she lifted her hand to hail a taxi. Almost immediately, one pulled over. Only to have another one come up from behind and nearly rear end him, the blare of the horn deafening. Bronte frowned then noticed that the second taxi held no normal cab driver. Rather, Connor’s brother Marc was behind the wheel.

  Her heart giving a gentle squeeze, she told the first driver she didn’t need him, then hurried to the second. She quickly crawled in the back, slightly disappointed she didn’t find Connor waiting for her there.

  “You made a wrong turn back there,” Marc McCoy said, easily weaving back into the heavy lunch-hour traffic.

  Bronte looked to where her knuckles were nearly white from where they held her bag. “I…couldn’t. I was afraid I’d lead those guys back there straight to Connor.”

  He slanted her a glance as he put a raggedy baseball cap on his head. “Tsk, tsk. You don’t give us enough credit.”

  Ridiculously, she felt her eyes flush with tears. “No, I’m afraid I gave myself too much.” She collapsed against the seat, trying to hold her tears at bay. She couldn’t give herself over to them now. She couldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Remembering her cell phone, she fished through her bag for it. Eyeing the offensive instrument, she cracked the window and began to stuff it out.

  “Don’t!”

  She jumped, startled by Marc’s vehement order. She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Why? They’re probably using it to trace me even now. Wherever I go, they’ll go.”

  “That’s what we’re counting on.”

  She stared at him, puzzled.

  He motioned toward the window in front of them. “Ahead is the Dupont Circle Metro station. You’re going to get out there, with the phone, then go inside. If you’re being followed, they won’t have enough time to cover both exits. Go inside. At the other north exit, you’ll find Mitch wearing one of Pops’s police uniforms. He’ll have the exit blocked off…except to you. Give him the phone, then go out that exit, walk up a block, hang a right—and this time don’t go the other way. There you’ll find Jake waiting in a dark blue sedan. Get in the back.”

  Bronte watched him, mesmerized, then nodded her head slightly.

  He pulled to a stop near the south Metro entrance. “Go.”

  She began to, then stopped and reached out to touch Marc’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

  He met her gaze, his own full of indecipherable emotion. “Don’t mention it.”

  She got out, then descended the steps to the Metrorail stop. As promised, at the opposite end stood Mitch, looking formidable in an official policeman’s uniform. He’d placed a black-and-yellow road block in front of the exit, and she had no doubt another was at the top of the stairs, blocking the entrance. He stood with his arms crossed, directing pedestrians to the other exit.

  Bronte approached, then slid him the phone. He nodded, and she hurried up the stairs, glancing back to see him slip the cell phone into a large brown shopping bag held by a woman boarding the train.

  Her heart growing lighter with hope, her mind heavier with respect for the McCoys, she emerged back into daylight. Thankful for her tendency to carry oversized purses, she slipped out of her jacket, stuffed it into the bag, then tugged her white blouse out of her slacks so that it reached down to nearly her thighs, giving her appearance a completely different, more casual look. Reaching into her bag, she took out a navy-blue, rimmed rain cap that folded down to nearly nothing, then shook it out. Within seconds, her short red hair was completely hidden under the hat. A pair of sunglasses completed the transformation. As she turned the corner, she caught sight of herself in the glass of a pharmacy. She nearly didn’t recognize herself. The hat gave her an ageless type of quality. She could have been eighteen or eighty.

  There. There was the blue sedan, so like hundreds of others in the city used to shuttle diplomats around. Giving a quick glance around, she quickly climbed into the back seat. She’d barely closed the door when Jake pulled away from the curb.

  CONNOR IDLED MITCH’S oversized red truck, seeking out Jake’s car in his rearview mirror. It didn’t take him long to spot it. And it didn’t take long for that weightless feeling in his stomach to reappear when he spotted Bronte.

  He grimaced then ran his hand over his freshly shaven cheeks.

  After his brothers had bullied him into going to the main McCoy place that morning, he’d caught a shower and a shave, and changed into the fresh clothes he’d pilfered from his own apartment last night. The routine task had made him feel somewhat human again.

  He watched Bronte get out of Jake’s car. He reached over and opened the passenger door for her, then pressed the automatic lock button once she was inside.

  She was out of breath, but that’s not what Connor noticed about her. With the floppy rain cap and sunglasses on, she looked liked somebody’s mother instead of the sleek, sassy junior U.S. attorney she was.

  His chest tightened even further.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  Connor had pulled into traffic, giving Jake a brief nod of gratitude as he passed. He looked at Bronte, wondering if she was thinking the same thing he was.

  She motioned with her hand jerkily. “I didn’t know that all…that was going to happen when I asked you to meet me at the courthouse this morning.”

  She was apologizing for the entire SWAT team being positioned within a one-block radius.

  All it had taken was one carefully placed phone call from Pops to find out that SWAT had been alerted.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  She quickly looked away, as if unconvinced, then said quietly, “Thank you.”

  This wasn’t going at all as he had planned. Connor frowned, then made a fast right-hand turn without flicking on the blinker. “What are you thanking me for?”

  She glanced at him, her lower lip trembling, making her look all the more vulnerable and incredibly kissable. He fought a groan and forced himself to lo
ok away.

  “Thank you for keeping your word,” she said quietly.

  Connor made another right-hand turn a little more quickly than he’d intended, forcing Bronte almost flush up against his side. Heat instantly exploded through him at the points of contact between them, and her subtle scent teased his nose. It was all he could do not to curve his arm around her and pull her closer.

  Instead, he made a left-hand turn, forcing her almost up against the door, well away from him.

  “I always keep my word.”

  He thought he heard her say “I know” but couldn’t be sure because she seemed overly interested in the objects reflected in the side-view mirror.

  But he knew the instant she relaxed then turned her attention on him, for every nerve ending sizzled to life.

  “You look different,” she said.

  He glanced at her, then wished he hadn’t, because her smile was too dazzling, reminded him too much of last night and all that had passed between them. He refocused his gaze on the road. “So do you.”

  “Oh!” Seeming to realize she still wore her disguise, she took off the sunglasses and the ridiculous cap, then finger-combed her short red hair back into place. “I thought maybe it might help.”

  “It probably did.”

  She seemed to make a federal case out of folding the cap into a neat little square, then placing it and her glasses into her bag, while taking a suit jacket out. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly a short while later.

  He gave in to the urge to look at her. “Fine. You?”

  The expression on her face told him she didn’t buy his answer. Not that he was surprised. Not once in the short time he’d known Bronte, had he been able to get anything over on her. Why should now be any different?

  She shifted on the seat until she was almost facing him. “Okay, what is it, McCoy?” she asked, putting on her best cross-examining U.S. attorney’s face. “You might as well just be out with it, because I’m going to find out what’s bothering you sooner or later anyway.”