Page 7 of Safeguarding the Witness

He opened the passenger side door for her. Still keeping watch, he escorted her to an enclosed, air-conditioned lounge inside the hangar, complete with refrigerator and vending machines. Mollie frowned at the snacks on display. “Any chance of getting real food?”

“There’s a menu on the coffee table.” He guided her through an arrangement of simple leatherette chairs and sofas to a reception area with computers, printers, notebooks and phones. Behind the desk, a compact woman with long, curly, black hair spun around on her swivel chair and gave them a bright, professional smile.

Spence introduced her. “This is Reba Richter, paragon of efficiency. Tell her your food order for the restaurant, and she’ll put it on my tab.”

“I definitely want a cheeseburger and fries,” Mollie said. “Also, I’d like to get a fresh shirt and clean socks. If it’s possible, a shower.”

“I’ll fix you right up.” Reba turned to Spence and held out her hand for his key fob. “Let me take care of your rental car. I expect you want to see your pilot. He should be here any minute. I contacted him when you walked in.”

Her competence always impressed him. “If you ever move to Oregon, I have a job waiting for your proficient touch.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day.” She took Mollie by the arm and led her toward a door behind her desk. “There’s a locker room back here. You can take a shower and freshen up while your food is being prepared.”

The pilot and copilot for Salem Beacon Charter entered the lounge and took Spence to a cubicle workstation down a short hallway, where they had a brief discussion of the return trip to Salem Airport. Since they were returning to his home base, Spence had no special requests for the flight crew. The pilot promised they’d take off as soon as he did a safety check and filed a flight plan.

When they left, Spence leaned back in the desk chair and propped his feet on the desktop. Down to business, he ran through a series of calls, checking in with his office secretary, then contacting the supervisor on his security staff to make sure everything was ready for Mollie’s arrival. The safe house had been supplied with linens and food. Vehicles rented. Bodyguards assigned. His car was waiting at the airport.

The next call might be problematic. He didn’t intend to stick around while the Denver cops investigated, but the attack needed to be reported. Law enforcement should be informed. Spence had the phone number Mollie’s father had given him to contact US Marshal Tim Youngblood, their contact in Denver.

Spence lowered his feet from the desktop and stared at his phone screen. If he made this call, Marshal Youngblood would probably demand to see Mollie and would, most likely, take her back into protective custody while they processed paperwork. In which case, this frantic trip to Denver would have been in vain. Mollie would disappear into the system. Finding her again would be complicated as hell.

He stood and shoved his phone into his pocket. He’d contact Youngblood after they were airborne, flying west into the golden sunset.

Chapter Three

Mollie settled into the embrace of a well-padded, adjustable, leather chair on the midsize Cessna Citation jet and buckled her seat belt. The burger and fries had satisfied her hunger, and Reba had anticipated her sweet tooth with a tiramisu trifle. The incredibly competent woman in the hangar lounge had also wrangled a royal blue Cessna T-shirt, a windbreaker and two pairs of socks. The shower in the locker room had been no-frills but served the purpose of washing away the dirt and sweat from Mollie’s menial but not unpleasant job at the flower shop and nursery.

Feeling like a new woman, she peered through the porthole window as they taxied to the runway. The mountains west of town spread across the horizon, and the skies above took on a peach glow. With no one to wave goodbye to on the tarmac, she was ready to soar into her drastically changed future.

Across the narrow aisle in a comfortable chair of his own, Spence rapidly tapped into a laptop that rested on a fold-down table. He closed the computer, slipped it into a side pocket of the chair and turned toward her. “You don’t have a problem with flying.”

More a statement than a question. “How do you know?”

“Research,” he said. “None of your records mentioned aerophobia.”

Not fair. She hated that he had so much of her history at his fingertips. The man was borderline arrogant. “You think you’ve got all the answers, don’t you?”

“On the contrary, Mollie. I’m not well informed about your life in WITSEC. I’d appreciate if you’d fill me in.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“The more information I have, the better I can anticipate the threats to you and deal with your protection. I want to keep you safe.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

When he smiled—for the second time since they’d met on her doorstep—his dimples relaxed his features. The mood transformed from extreme tension to something gentler, like going from an itchy hair shirt to a velvet gown. He pushed his neatly trimmed, dark brown hair off his tanned forehead. His green eyes sparkled, and she wondered how he got the scar.

Arrogant? Yes. But he was definitely on her team. It was to her advantage to cooperate. She smiled back. “You already know the background. My sister and I lived with my aunt Irma since we were thirteen and my mother died from a brain aneurysm. My father, Dr. Hiram Harper, taught art history.”

“And published four books on Western and European art,” he said.

Once again, he showed off his insider knowledge. The guy couldn’t help himself. She continued, “After Mom died, Dad focused almost entirely on his career. Not that he neglected me and Madison, but losing the love of his life so suddenly nearly killed him. He tried to be a good father, remembering our birthday—only one for the both of us—and spending holidays together. He called at least once a week, usually on Sunday morning. We knew he loved us, even when he took a job at Berkeley and moved six hundred miles away.”

“It must have been hard to be separated from him.”

“Only a long day’s drive.” She shrugged—a practiced gesture designed to cover the pain of abandonment. First, her mother. Then, her father. All she had left was her sister until her cousins became a new family when the Four Clovers were in high school. “Madison and I preferred Cloverdell, anyway.”