The Protector Page 20

  “Oh, my God,” Eryn whispered.

  “We’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” said Dwayne, with a level look.

  Was he serious? Ike looked back at the Sheriff, who nodded his agreement.

  “The government boys have got it all wrong,” insisted Olsen. “You’ve been good to us, LT. You’re a patriot, not an outlaw. We’d like to help you out.”

  Humbled by the locals’ sense of loyalty, Ike glanced down at Eryn, who squirmed out of the Ghillie suit as she came to her feet. Dwayne and his uncle both fell silent as she emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon. “Hello, I’m Eryn,” she said, stepping forward to shake the Sheriff’s hand, then Dwayne’s as he rounded the car to greet her.

  A warm tide of respect washed over Ike as he watched her. The woman had been to hell and back. She’d been scared out of her wits and pushed to her limits, but there she was, all manners and grace, shaking hands with the Sheriff like she’d arrived to share a pot of tea. He fucking loved her.

  Rocked by the realization, he let the others bask in her presence while he pulled himself together and mulled over their offer. He, for one, didn’t need their help. He could slip past any hastily assembled barricade, especially under the cover of darkness. But Eryn could use a break. “Can you take us to Naked Creek Vineyards?” he said, cutting through the pleasantries.

  “Not a problem,” said Sheriff Olsen. “There’s just one thing. You’ll have to travel in the trunk.” Rounding the car, he lifted the hatch and sent Eryn an apologetic grimace. “They’re searching all the cars that come through.”

  Ike had decided the men were trustworthy. Scooping up his rifle, he guided Eryn toward the trunk and stuffed his pack and both Ghillie suits inside. Then he helped her in.

  “This is a first,” she admitted, climbing awkwardly into the enclosed space. She laid her head on his pack.

  Dividing a final look between Barnes and Olsen, Ike eased in next to her and twisted onto his back, holding his rifle in readiness across his chest.

  The Sheriff sidled around, took one last look at them, and wordlessly shut the trunk, snuffing out the sunlight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the cramped trunk of the police car, Eryn shifted closer. “Ike,” she called, as the tires rumbled over debris. He could feel tension in the fingers gripping his arm. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” The cruiser started backing down the road.

  He’d just been wondering if a reward hadn’t been posted for their capture. “They let me keep my rifle,” he reassured them both. “They never would have done that if they weren’t going to let us go.”

  With a weapon in his possession, he simply could not be apprehended. “If something happens, I’m going to take offensive action. You stay behind me, glued to my back, and you do what I say.” He’d gladly die to protect her, if he had to.

  She hugged him harder, her fingertips digging into his biceps.

  “Hey.” He turned his head to look at her. A pinhole of light shone through a crack in the seam of the trunk. “I’ll get you away from all this,” he promised. If he had his way, she would never, ever go through anything like it again.

  “I’m not worried about me, Ike.” Her words surprised him. “It’s true I don’t want to go back to the FBI, not at all. But chances are I’d be safe with them, now. They’d take extra precautions after the bombing, don’t you think? It’s you I’m worried about.”

  No one had ever said words like that to him before.

  “You can take care of yourself,” she added. “I know that. But I don’t want you going to jail because of me.”

  “Shhh.” Her words made him want to kiss her, not just because she was so goddamn nice to him but also to stop her from fretting. “I’ve been in worse places.”

  Even in the dark, he could see her eyes glimmering. “I know you have,” she said, thickly. “But you deserve better—”

  “No.” He didn’t deserve shit. He sure as hell didn’t deserve her, not that he ever had her in the first place.

  At his fierce tone, she fell silent. The only sound was the rumbling of the tires and pebbles hitting the car’s undercarriage. With a lurch, the car bounced onto asphalt, and the white noise faded leaving the trunk suddenly quiet.

  “Ike.” She moved even closer, pulling his arm between her breasts.

  “What?” Would he ever get to caress those breasts again, suck those raspberry nipples into his mouth?

  “You have to forgive yourself for what happened to your teammates,” she urged in a desperate whisper that made him feel like the end was near for them.

  The advice closed a fist around his heart and squeezed. He pretended not to hear her.

  But his silence didn’t deter her. “You need to find the survivors and to talk to them. They don’t blame you, Ike. I know they don’t.”

  He could only hope she was right. But, damn it, this wasn’t the time to discuss his issues. He needed to concentrate on the route the Sheriff was taking, so he could be sure they were headed in the right direction.

  With a troubled sigh, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. Longing sluiced through him, dragging him into an undertow of pointless yearning. More than anything, he wanted to rise up and surpass her expectations. He wanted to be worthy of her respect, but the road to redemption was dark and treacherous. A cold sweat breached his skin at the mere prospect of traversing it. He lay there, his stomach roiling.

  Suddenly, the sedan, which had been clipping along at forty or so miles per hour, slowed to a stop. Ike braced himself to keep from sliding into Eryn. Outside, he could hear raised voices, the tramping of feet. He tightened his grip on his rifle.

  “You see anything, Sheriff?” asked a voice Ike didn’t recognize.

  “Neither hide nor hair,” said Olsen, in his distinctive drawl. “We went way back in the woods, all around Green Mountain. Didn’t see nothing. Good luck findin’ him,” he added.

  “Thanks. You can go on through,” said the stranger, thumping the trunk as the car eased forward.

  Eryn jumped at the sound.

  The sedan swung left and picked up speed. Recognizing the angle of the turn, Ike let himself relax. They’d barreled through the first barricade. Now they were now headed swiftly toward Naked Creek Vineyards. In just a few more minutes, Eryn could take a hot shower, sleep in a comfortable bed, and enjoy the amenities she’d been without for days. It only drove home how little he had to offer her.

  “Out you go,” said the Sheriff, opening the trunk.

  Sunlight blinded Eryn. Ike rolled out ahead of her like a coiled spring. A moment later, he hauled her out after him. As he reached back inside for his pack, she turned full circle, noting that the cruiser had stopped in the middle of a vine-draped field, on a dirt track that divided trellises as far as the eye could see.

  Bright green tendrils with leaves just beginning to unfurl coursed the length of strings that stretched the length of a pasture. A mansion, painted lemon yellow, lorded over the vineyard a hundred yards away. Lovely, she thought, feeling her fear and weariness slip away.

  “Sheriff.” Ike extended his hand. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” said the older man, pumping with enthusiasm. “But it was Dwayne’s idea. Felt he owed it to you.”

  Ike headed for the lowered passenger window. He and Dwayne shared a long look. “Sorry ’bout the other day,” Ike finally said. “No hard feelings?”

  “None,” Dwayne agreed, grinning at him. The Sheriff slipped behind the wheel, and in the next instant, the cruiser started backing away, leaving them standing on what had to be a tractor road.

  “Come on.” Ike shouldered his pack and grabbed her hand. Together they followed the tracks in the dark earth, past the rows of trellises, headed straight for the house.

  “Who lives here again?” The sweet-smelling soil and the tidy lines combing the fields soothed her lingering concerns.

  “Former trainee. Some punk kept vandalizing his vineyard, screwing with the machine
ry. Chris took my course to put a stop to it; caught the culprit and sent him to jail.”

  “So, Chris owes you a debt of gratitude.” She shot him a look. “Is he expecting us?”

  “He is now.”

  As they passed the last line of grape vines, the house came fully into view, and Eryn’s eyes widened. “Now that’s a house,” she exclaimed, impressed by the French architecture.

  In the same instant, a tall, raw-boned man slipped out of an adjacent building. Crossing the pebbled courtyard, he gestured for them to follow.

  Entering the mansion via a rear entrance, Eryn found herself in a mud-room with tiled flooring, a sink, and state-of-the-art laundry appliances. She took a deep breath, savoring the scent of fabric softener.

  “I thought you might come here,” said the man, grasping Ike’s hand. He slid Eryn an assessing look.

  “This is Eryn McClellan,” said Ike. “Eryn, Christopher Axtel.”

  “Chris,” said the giant, engulfing her hand in his. Speculative blue eyes shone from a weathered face. “Your father is the ISAF Commander.”

  Startled, Eryn glanced at Ike.

  “How do you know that?” Ike demanded. “And why’d you think I’d come here?”

  “You were just on the news, my friend,” Chris explained, making Eryn’s stomach drop. “Rumor has it the FBI is searching for a former Navy SEAL who supposedly abducted the ISAF Commander’s daughter. Sounds like hogwash to me.”

  “Shit,” Ike breathed, rubbing his neck.

  “Ike didn’t kidnap me,” Eryn protested.

  “Of course not.” Chris put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The rumors are ridiculous. If he’s doing anything, he’s protecting you. Am I right?”

  “That’s exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Look, the less you know, the better,” Ike cut in, sounding tired. “You think you could spare us a bed for a few hours then loan me a car once the sun sets?”

  “You already know the answer,” their host assured him. “Take your muddy clothes off here. I’ll have them washed.” He ran a look over Eryn’s figure. “I’ll be right back with clothes for both of you.”

  Eryn murmured her appreciation. Shocked by the reports that Ike was wanted for kidnapping, she studied his inscrutable expression as he released the buttons on his filthy jacket. She could tell by the mask on his face that he was deeply discouraged. “I should turn myself in,” she offered quietly.

  His green gaze jumped up and skewered her. In the next instant, he stepped closer, caught her face lightly between his hands and said, “If you do that, then every risk I’ve taken—that we’ve taken,” he amended, “—was for nothing.”

  Memories of their week together replayed in her mind’s eye. She thought of Ike whisking her from the safe house. Warming water for her bath. Training Winston. Teaching her to shoot, to defend herself. “It hasn’t been for nothing,” she argued. “You’ve made me stronger, Ike. You’ve showed me how to fight back, not be a victim.”

  “You’re not going to turn yourself in,” he insisted, his lips firming. “We’ve come this far. We’re almost in the clear.”

  “Okay,” she soothed, sensing his distress. “I just hate the thought of you being vilified. You’re not a kidnapper, Ike, you’re a hero.”

  Her assertion made him step back abruptly, as if she’d slapped him. He bent over and wordlessly untied his muddy boots.

  **

  With one eye on the blue Buick parked across the street, Farshad slipped into the noisy auto shop to look for Shahbaz. If he could have things his way, he would never be meeting Vengeance face-to-face, but circumstances had changed suddenly and dramatically. Farshad desperately needed a car, one that didn’t stand out like his cousin’s black taxi, and a scapegoat. Shahbaz could provide him with both.

  “Excuse me,” he said, intercepting an employee in grease-stained coveralls. Farshad himself was as immaculately dressed as always, wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase. “I am looking for Shahbaz Wahidi.”

  “Right there,” said the mechanic, pointing to a youth who was leaning over the engine of a large, rust-colored American car.

  Farshad sidled up next to him. “As-salaam alaikum,” he murmured, and the youth pulled his head out from under the hood. So, it’s this boy, he thought, dismayed by the stumped look in the boy’s eyes.

  “It’s you!” he exclaimed suddenly, his puzzlement clearing. “Allah’s blessing be upon you,” he added, demonstrating to Farshad that he didn’t speak Arabic well enough to answer him properly.

  Farshad frowned. Had all Muslim American youth cut ties with tradition? He stepped closer, only to be assaulted by odors of oil and gasoline rising off the boy’s work clothes. “Allah has revealed the woman’s whereabouts,” he disclosed on a whisper. He was mollified to see Shahbaz’s slow, gap-toothed smile. Perhaps what he lacked in culture, he made up for in enthusiasm.

  “Where is she?” inquired the youth, wiping his hands hastily with a rag.

  Farshad flicked a glance toward a television, just visible from where they stood, in the waiting area. “On the news,” he said, withholding details for now. “We must leave right away.”

  “Now?” Shahbaz looked nonplussed.

  “While the agents across the street are eating,” Farshad explained. “Come, you have better things to do than to change the oil in this car.”

  “Alternator belt,” the boy corrected him. “I already fixed it.”

  “Is the car reliable?”

  “It runs.”

  “Then we’ll take it,” Farshad said, daring him with a look to defy his authority.

  Shahbaz hesitated only briefly. “Very well, Teacher.”

  At least he seemed to understand that defending Islam took precedence over keeping his job. As Shahbaz shut the hood with a clang, Farshad rounded the vehicle to slip into the passenger seat, his briefcase on his lap. Shahbaz took the wheel. Backing them cautiously from the auto shop, he circled the parking lot before heading to the street. Farshad kept a wary eye on the Buick, but the agents did not remark their leaving. No one would report the car stolen for a while.

  Within minutes, they were clipping along Connecticut in the direction of the Beltway. Farshad held his hand out. “Give me your cell phone,” he demanded

  Shahbaz pulled it from his breast pocket and slowly surrendered it. Farshad lowered the window and tossed it onto the street, where it shattered into pieces. “Now you can’t be followed,” he explained, ignoring the boy’s dismay.

  “Where are we going?” Shahbaz asked.

  “Patience,” Farshad advised him, none too lightly, as he opened his briefcase. “This will explain everything.” Inside his briefcase was his laptop. He opened it and powered it on. With the wireless card from Verizon, he could get Internet anywhere within a fifteen mile radius of a cell tower.

  Accessing the website for MSNBC news, he clicked on the video for the day’s top story and cranked up the volume so Shahbaz could hear.

  “The manhunt continues in Rockingham County, Virginia for Eryn McClellan, daughter of General McClellan, leader of the International Security Assistance Force in Afghanistan. The twenty-six-year-old teacher from Washington, D.C. has twice been targeted by Muslim extremists protesting her father’s actions in Afghanistan. Miss McClellan disappeared from a bombed FBI safe house a week ago and is believed to be in the company of former Navy SEAL Officer, Isaac Calhoun. It remains unclear whether Calhoun, who once served under her father, is protecting Miss McClellan or whether he has abducted her. The FBI and state officials refuse to comment. We will keep viewers advised as soon as we have an update.”

  Farshad shut the laptop, sending Shahbaz a satisfied smile. “Alhumdulillah,” he murmured.

  “So,” Shahbaz said, clearly still processing what he’d overheard. “She is in Rockingham County. Where is that?”

  “Not far,” Farshad replied. “Go south on the Beltway up ahead.”

  **

  Eryn exchanged h
er borrowed clothing for one of the fluffy white robes hanging on the back of the guest bathroom’s door.

  A couple of hours had elapsed since her and Ike’s arrival. Showered and dressed in borrowed clothing, they had joined their hosts in the sunny, gourmet kitchen to enjoy a luncheon of club sandwiches and pickles. Over glasses of the vineyard’s award-winning Fiore, they had touched on several interesting topics, while never once mentioning Eryn’s circumstance. By late afternoon, the morning’s harrowing events had faded from her mind.