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The only lights in this lot are on the other side, near the restaurant door.” He dug into the soil again and scooped out another pile with his hands.
Beside him, Bailey filled her graceful hands with the earth and added to his pile. “I know.”
And she sounded so disappointed. Damn it. Once he’d given her a bit of proof about her previous life, she’d believed him, despite how crazy it must have sounded to her. She couldn’t produce any evidence out of thin air, but he could still give her the benefit of the doubt until her theory no longer seemed possible.
“I know you’re worried and upset. We’ll figure it out. This might not be the right spot, but we’ll keep looking—”
The crowbar hit something hard and metallic deep in the soil.
Had their luck finally changed?
“What was that?” she asked, hunkered down next to him.
“Help me.” He shoved the end of the crowbar into the soil until he could discern the outer edges of a box. It clinked every time he hit the side. Together, they shoved the soil away, frantic to reach whatever they’d found.
“You don’t think it’s water pipes or a sewer line, do you?” she asked.
“No. The shape is definitely square. I don’t know how deep it is yet. Keep digging.”
Five minutes became ten. The sun dipped closer to the horizon. Damn it, they had to get a move on. People might show up for dinner or a drink at this restaurant soon and question why the hell they were digging at the edge of the parking lot. He also didn’t like the fact that he’d seen that red truck not far away but had no clue where its owner might be right now.
Sweat sheened his skin. His heart beat in rapid thumps of anxiety. His fingers ached from gripping the crowbar and digging into the hard soil, which had been frozen for most of the winter. He’d have dirt under his fingernails for the next six months—and he just didn’t care. They might be moments away from the discovery that could save Bailey and allow her to walk away from her past as Tatiana Aslanov.
Joaquin risked a peek at her. A little dewy film covered her forehead and just under her bottom lip. Hell of a time to notice that her nipples strained the purple T-shirt she wore. With her hair in a haphazard knot on her head and her gaze focused down, she still looked beautiful to him. In fact, she always did—at any time, in any setting. He’d do whatever he must to keep her safe. And make her his.
Joaquin reached into the hole they’d dug, feeling his way along the edge of the metallic object. Definitely some sort of box.
Bailey dug around the other side, then looked up at him with an excited smile. “I got my fingers under the edge.”
They were close.
“Let me try . . .” He burrowed his digits deeper into the earth, finagling at the edge until the pads of his fingers slipped just under. “I got it, too.”
He looked down into the hole, trying to see what he’d only felt so far, but with the canopy of trees filtering out their late afternoon sun, only a shadowy gray yawned back at him.
“Can you pull it up? I think if we wiggle it, we might be able to wedge it free.”
Joaquin suspected she was right. “Let’s do it. Carefully. I don’t think anything is breakable, but let’s not take a chance.”
They pulled and strained, jiggling one side, then the other. Finally, the sun dropped, seeming to touch the mountain in the distance. Longer shadows fell across the parking lot as he pulled his side free from the hole. Bailey lifted hers up next, and earth trickled back into the hole. The sharp edges of the metallic box bit into his fingers as he held it up to the residual sunlight for a good look.
“There’s no lock on it?” Bailey sounded confused by that fact.
“I’m surprised, too. But I guess he had no way of giving you a key and being sure you could hang on to it until you were an adult. Getting you to remember the location of the box was a feat in itself, so he probably didn’t want to risk hoping you’d remember a combination on top of it. Besides, with a good pair of wire cutters and some gumption, anyone could snip the lock free.”
“Good point.”
Joaquin reached for the latch holding the lid shut. As he grasped it, Bailey touched his arm softly.
“Can I do it?” She looked somewhere between nervous and earnest.
This was something she needed to do. Being the first person to set eyes on whatever her father had buried over fifteen years ago would bring her a sense of closure. Hopefully, she’d be seeing exactly what her family had died for, what had wrought so much destruction in her life both now and then. He prayed nothing in here would hurt her or increase her risk of danger even more. But nothing about chasing this crazy needle in this bizarre haystack had been easy or a given. He couldn’t take this away from her now.
“Do it.” Joaquin handed her the box.
* * *
WITH both relief and a new onslaught of tension, Bailey took the metal container into her grip. It wasn’t huge, maybe six inches by four. Caked in dirt, the color was tough to discern, but as she brushed the top clean with her fingers, she suspected it had once been an industrial gray. A sticker of what looked like a mouse was stuck on top, yellowed by time and earth. Viktor had thought of everything in order to tie the rhyme to the location of the box, right down to the little rodent.
Trembling, she took hold of the latch. The rectangular hole in the middle fit over a metal protrusion curved in the shape of a U, which prevented the lid from opening without human intervention. Her hands trembled as she freed the flap from the flange, then lifted the lid.
Joaquin leaned in with her as they both peered into the box. Inside lay something smallish and square, swathed in layers of bubble wrap. Bailey reached for it, then hesitated.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “This is what your father wanted you to find.”
“What if this . . . whatever it is Viktor left me doesn’t make my trouble with LOSS go away?”
“We’ll deal with it then, but he kept you alive for this. Check it out.”
Anxiety and excitement biting into her belly, Bailey reached into the box and lifted the plastic bundle. She tore into the taped seal of the bubble wrap, her fingers fumbling with nerves and haste.
She nearly dropped it. With a shriek, Bailey bit her lip to hold the sound in as the protective coat finally unraveled from the device.
“Some sort of electronic storage medium,” she murmured. “Viktor left me information. It’s got to be his research. He left me information that potentially has the power to change the world. Oh, God.”
“It’s a compact flash disk, kind of a precursor to an SD card. My mom had a camera that stored images on one of these.” Joaquin put an arm around her waist to steady her, and Bailey was grateful for his support.
They’d found what her sire had left her, what might secure her safety once and for all. Callie’s, too.
“I’ll take that,” called a voice behind them.
Bailey whirled around to find the man with the hoodie she’d seen at the hotel, pointing a gun directly at them.
Chapter Eighteen
JOAQUIN’S blood froze. Just beyond the man with the gun, he saw the red truck idling. Son of a bitch, he should have realized . . . He should have questioned its mysterious appearance more, scouted around. But he’d let his impatience to help Bailey get in the way of his natural caution. His failure might cost them their lives.
He tightened his grip on Bailey. “Don’t.”
“Stop trying to be a hero. Just give me the disk,” their assailant sneered.
So he could shoot and kill them the moment they complied? Joaquin knew he had to keep this guy talking.
“How did you find us?”
“I followed you from the Aslanov farm. I’d been monitoring the place, hoping you’d turn up. Good to know I was right.”
“You were driving the silver sedan at the hotel?” Bailey blurted.
“You’re not totally stupid for a ballerina.”
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Joaquin didn’t bother asking why the goon hadn’t confronted them then. Of course this guy had waited, hoping Bailey would remember where Aslanov had hidden his research.
She frowned. “Then you traded it for the red truck at the fast-food joint not far from the lake—”
“Again, you figured me out. Congratulations,” he drawled. “I’m done talking. Now, dance the disk over to me, ballerina, or you both get it.”
“I’ll bring it to you,” Joaquin offered.
Annoyance flashed across his shadowed features. “This ain’t a negotiation. I don’t talk to federal agents, even former ones, so fuck off.”
This guy knew who he was, too? That set him back and made Joaquin reassess the enemy, who was clearly one step ahead. Their aggressor wasn’t big, maybe five-foot-eight, and a little on the scrawny side. The hoodie hid what appeared to be a young face. In a hand-to-hand fight, Joaquin knew he could take the guy, despite the tattoo running up the side of his neck that self-proclaimed him a badass.
Joaquin sized up his limited options. Play along? Jump the creep and hope he could get a good swipe in before a bullet landed between his eyes? Maybe he could draw his own gun and get in a lucky shot before he bit it. Would any of those options give Bailey enough time to run?
Probably not.
They were fucked.
He wished like hell he’d listened to Hunter and come with backup, but this woulda, coulda, shoulda was too late now. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight.
Joaquin tried to ease the arm he’d slid around Bailey toward the small of his back to reach his gun.
“Stop there, asshole,” the man warned. “Hands up.”
Shit. Joaquin winced. Now what?
The criminal trained his gun on Bailey. “Do it! Or I waste her while you watch.”
No choice. Any chance he had of keeping Bailey alive, Joaquin would take. He raised his hands above his head.
“Take a step away from her.”
Fuck. Did this asshole mean to shoot him and leave Bailey at his dubious mercy? Again, Joaquin didn’t see a choice. He took one step to his left, away from her trembling body. He sent her a look that told her he’d do whatever possible to keep her alive. If they could just find a way to distract the guy for a few seconds . . .
“Good. I like cooperation,” the man in the gray hoodie snapped. “Keep it that way.”
Then, without warning, he pulled the trigger of his weapon, hitting Bailey in the neck.
Panic fired Joaquin’s blood as she staggered back. He watched her crumple to the ground and fell to his knees at her side. What had happened? She couldn’t be dead. His thoughts jumbled. His heart chugged.
Joaquin inspected Bailey. She wasn’t bleeding. Instead, a little dart protruded from her neck. He realized the gun hadn’t discharged with a loud bang but a quieter hiss.
Their attacker started laughing. “Psych! It’s a tranq gun, you moron. You couldn’t tell?”
The parking lot had been too shadowed for him to get a detailed look. Joaquin thanked goodness she wasn’t dead, but he was absolutely going to have to shoot this bastard to get her out of here in one piece. Luckily, he had no problem with that.
“Bailey,” he called.
“Hmm.” She sounded barely coherent.
Worry torqued Joaquin’s gut.
“She can’t hear you,” the bastard in the hoodie sneered. “She’ll be asleep for the next twelve hours—at least.”
“I’ll give you the research.” Joaquin reached for the disk. “You want it?”
“Don’t touch it!” their assailant shouted. “Get away from her and put your hands in the air, damn it.” He transferred the gun to one hand and reached into his hoodie pocket with the other, retrieving a semiautomatic. Instantly, he wrapped his finger around the trigger. “I need her alive. You? Not so much. Get on your knees. I’m itching for the chance to waste a scumbag who made a living as a federal agent.”
Joaquin scrambled to his feet and stepped away, knowing that if he knelt again, he wouldn’t ever get back up. His best chance to save himself, Bailey, and the research was to take cover and shoot this asshole.
“Yeah?” he challenged. “I’d like the chance to waste the scum trying to tear this country apart.”
If he was going to get out of this alive, he needed a distraction. On the edge of an empty parking lot, his choices were few.
Joaquin sank to one knee, as if he meant to stoop down. Instead, he quickly grabbed at the disk and tossed it across the asphalt.
“You fucking shithead!” the criminal yelled and tore after it.
Joaquin tried to lift Bailey and haul her with him to some cover, but he couldn’t hold her and his gun at once. Damn it! A glance up proved the guy in the hoodie had retrieved the disk and was now shoving it in his pocket.
Joaquin hauled ass toward the cover of the wide trunk of the tree. As dark as the lot had become, he wouldn’t be an impossible target to hit, but he would be a much more difficult one. As if to prove him right, the separatist shot at him. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder.
With a curse, the attacker came after him. He’d probably rather take Bailey and the disk, then flee. But he wouldn’t leave a loose end alive if he could help it.
Another bullet zipped past his ear as Joaquin reached the trunk and stood sideways behind it, then grabbed his gun from his waistband. He peered around the tree and saw the guy in the hoodie racing toward him. He popped off a shot and obviously missed because the assailant fired again—now closing in. This time, the bullet pinged off the bark.
Joaquin took a chance and crouched down, then leaned around the tree to take another shot. Just as he did, a second man opened the door of the red truck in the distance, gun in hand. The new psycho bore down in Joaquin’s direction, his features shadowed by the falling dusk.
Together, the two separatists fired a hail of bullets at him. Joaquin hunkered on the ground, inching toward the lake. If they both came at him at once, guns blazing, he might not have any fallback position except the water. But damn it, he didn’t want to leave Bailey to them. God knew what they’d do with her. Still, he was more use to her alive than dead.
Since he had limited ammo remaining for his gun, his options were also limited.
“You’re a dead motherfucker,” one of them shouted.
Joaquin eased closer to the water. He hoped like hell the woman inside the restaurant had heard this barrage of gunfire and called the police. It might be his only chance to leave this parking lot alive. Without that, he was outmanned, outgunned, and out of his mind with worry for Bailey.
“Grab her,” the second assailant, wearing a black T-shirt, said, approaching the tree, gun at the ready. With a tattoo of a burning American flag on his forearm and a mean expression, he looked as if he’d lived a hard fifty years. He also sported a smooth-shaved bald head and a familiar face.
McKeevy. Shit! Joaquin’s heart stopped.
“I can’t get to her with this asshole firing at me,” the guy in the hoodie complained.
“Oh, I’ll do it, you whiny fucking bastard,” McKeevy spit.
Joaquin peeked around and found that he’d flung Bailey over his shoulder fireman style. Son of a bitch. She was in the arms of a sick fuck who enjoyed torturing young women to death in the most gruesome ways imaginable.
The hoodie-wearing asshole nodded. “Good. I’ll dust this guy.”
Joaquin didn’t have a moment to waste. He crawled on the far side of an adjacent bush, then stood, caught the younger criminal in his sight line, and pulled the trigger. At the same time, the man fired, but aimed toward Joaquin’s previous position, closer to the tree. He missed, then staggered back as Joaquin’s bullet went
