Beneath the Surface. Meredith Fletcher
fist.
Shannon pushed out of the alcove and started to run. She didn’t know how far she’d get before a bullet punched through her back.
“Shannon!” the man called. “Don’t run!”
She kept waiting for the “or I’ll shoot” addendum. It didn’t come.
“Please.”
That was even more surprising.
“If you run,” the man said, “they might get you.”
They?
“I can help you.”
The sirens sounded closer. Shannon looked around the street. Only then did she realize how much trouble she could be in. The police would want to know what she was doing there. If she told them she’d employed Drago, which might be something they learned anyway, she was going to be buried in legal difficulties.
She didn’t know enough about what was going on to feel safe. Not only that, but Drago had been convinced that the federal government was interested in the inquiries she’d asked him to make.
It wasn’t a good position to be in. There would be a lot of questions, and she wasn’t liked by many in the police departments or political offices. In fact, she’d covered a story for ABS three years ago concerning politically motivated murders that had involved a particularly offensive cover-up.
The District of Columbia Police Department and the Hill had gone ballistic when she’d broken the story without their approval. She’d barely escaped town one step ahead of the lynch mob. Only the news station’s lawyers had kept her from being brought back and charged.
The man made no move to pursue her. He didn’t put the gun away.
If he really wanted to hurt you, he’d have shot you by now, Shannon told herself. And if you run, you’re never going to know what’s going on. Or who he is.
She took a deep breath and walked back to him.
“Get in,” he growled.
Evidently politeness wasn’t his forte. Or maybe he had an issue with cops. Tall, dark and mysterious, he definitely looked like the type who would have a chronic problem with law enforcement.
Dirt streaked his hard, angular face, but Shannon could still make out the small scars on his right cheek and his neck. Another small scar stood out at the outside of his right eye.
He wasn’t a stranger to violence.
She became fully aware of the broad chest and lean hips encased in denim. He smelled like an outdoorsman, not like the metrosexuals of the broadcasting studio. His dark hair was longer than the norm. She wished she could see his eyes, but she was willing to bet they were dark. Dark brown or dark hazel would suit him perfectly.
“Get in,” he repeated.
“Are you in a hurry?” Shannon asked.
Without a word, the man climbed into the car and slid behind the steering wheel. He keyed the ignition and pulled the transmission into gear.
Only then did Shannon fully realize he intended to leave her standing there.
Chapter 5
Shannon ran around to the other side of the car and found it locked. She rapped on the window, which was somehow miraculously still intact.
The man looked at her for a moment, then spoke as if talking to himself. Maybe he was cursing whatever impulse persuaded him to get involved with her.
Shannon rapped again. She didn’t want whatever story he represented to just ride off into the night. Not only that, he obviously knew Vincent Drago. It was also possible that he knew why Drago had decided to kill her.
“Open the door,” Shannon ordered.
The man just looked at her. The sirens screamed more loudly and sounded closer.
Shannon took a page from his book. Mirroring the way someone treated her in an interview—a noncombative one, at least—often bought some trust and generosity. The wraparound sunglasses didn’t look inviting at all, though.
“Please,” she said in the same no-nonsense tone he’d used when he’d asked her.
This time the man leaned over and unlocked the door.
“Thank you.” Shannon slid inside the car. She glanced distastefully at the exploded headrest. The cottony fuzz was going to make a mess of her hair.
“Belt up,” the man ordered as he got the car under way.
“Are you always this friendly when you meet someone?” Shannon asked before she could stop herself. She reached for the seat belt and put it on.
The man’s voice was ice and his face was carved granite. “I don’t normally have to kill three people to get to know someone.”
“Did you go to the bar to meet Vincent Drago?” Shannon asked.
The man drove quickly. From the way he made the turns through the streets, Shannon figured he was a native to the city.
“No,” he said.
“It didn’t take you long to decide you didn’t like him.”
The man turned to her and grinned, but the effort was mirthless. “It didn’t take him long to decide he didn’t like you. Do you normally have that effect on people?”
Shannon frowned. “Drago and I had already met.”
“So how long did it take him to decide to kill you?”
“Are you always such a charming conversationalist?”
“I’m a charming guy.” He turned back to face forward as the stoplight turned green.
“Why were you there?”
“Why were you?”
Shannon studied him and tried to find all the things about him that made him unique. “Drago was a private investigator.”
The man nodded. “He specialized in electronic information and data management.”
“You knew that about Drago, but you’d never met him? I find that interesting. And how did you know my name?”
“I’ve seen you on television.”
“You’re a fan?”
“You might say that.”
Shannon didn’t believe that. He didn’t seem like the type to spend his life rooted in front of a television. He looked like more of a hunter or a fisherman.
“Then how did you just happen to be there at that bar tonight?” she asked.
The man checked the rearview mirror and the one remaining side mirror. “Why don’t you give me a few minutes before you keep hammering me with questions?”
“Sure.” Shannon debated retrieving her iPhone and taking his picture. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t like the idea. She also knew she was going to have a hard time holding the questions back.
“Head downtown,” Allison said.
Without responding, knowing Shannon Connor would be listening to every word he said, Rafe followed the directions Allison gave him. He’d worked in Washington before, so the city wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to him.
“I know you can’t talk,” Allison went on, “so I’ll try to hold up both ends of the conversation for you.”
Rafe didn’t reply. He didn’t want Shannon to know he was connected to someone else. He concentrated on driving. D.C. was a city trapped between disparate economies. Citizens drove new cars as well as beaters. He fit in. The only problem was that his beater was newer than most of the others around him.
Gradually