Carrie's Protector. Rebecca York
out the window and lowered himself, thankful that he was in good shape.
Controlling his descent, he eased down the wall, then let himself drop the four feet to the gravel surface of the roof below. Turning, he held up his arms to Carrie.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll catch you. Hurry, before they find us.”
She stuffed the gun into her shoulder bag, which she wrapped across her chest, then maneuvered herself out the window. Turning around, she lowered herself until her body was dangling from the frame. But her grip wasn’t strong enough, and she fell. Wyatt was there to catch her, taking her weight as she came hurtling down.
They both wavered on their feet, then he steadied them.
“Thanks,” she said.
“We’ve got to do that again.”
She made a strangled sound but followed him to the edge of the roof. Again he went first, lowering himself to his full length, then dropping six feet to the roof below.
When he turned and glanced up, he saw Carrie watching him. She looked as if she wanted to protest; instead, she grimly climbed over the edge and lowered herself by her arms. This time she must have made a concerted effort to control her descent. She didn’t let go until her full length was dangling from the edge. Again he caught her and staggered back, almost losing his balance. But he stayed on his feet, then went to check the next drop-off point.
A scuffling sound made him whirl around. He saw that Carrie had turned and was holding the pistol he’d given her in two hands—pointed at a man who was looking over the edge of the roof above, his weapon aimed downward.
Carrie fired, hitting the would-be assassin in the arm. Before he could recover, Wyatt delivered a chest shot, and the man went down, toppling over the edge and landing on the gravel surface a few yards from where they stood.
Carrie gasped as she stared at the body.
Wyatt hurried back to her, catching her look of horror as she realized what she’d done.
“I…I think he couldn’t believe a woman had the guts to fire at him.”
“His mistake,” Wyatt said in a gritty voice. “Thank God you did.”
She stood rigidly, and he reached for her hand.
“Gotta go.”
At his touch, she shook herself into action, and he hustled her to the edge of the roof. This time there was a bonus feature: a ladder leading down to ground level.
Wyatt sent Carrie down first, alternately covering her descent and checking for more pursuers on the roof above. When he joined her, she was shaking, and he knew she was still reacting to what had happened.
“I shot a man,” she whispered as though she were just now taking it in.
He pulled her toward him, at the same time easing her against the side of the building where it would be harder for anyone looking down from above to see them. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. “You shot in self-defense. He was going to kill you.”
“It’s not like shooting at a target.”
He didn’t point out that he’d fired the kill shot. Or that he’d killed a lot more men. This was no time for a philosophical discussion on the morality of protecting oneself.
She let her head drop to his shoulder, clinging to him, and he cradled her against himself, breathing in her scent, absorbing the curves of her slender body before easing away.
“We can’t stay here. Another one of them could come across the roof at any minute. And there’s a big clue up there about which way we went.”
She shuddered, then looked around. “Why didn’t we see any cops?”
“They may not know about it yet.”
While he’d been holding her, he’d been thinking about escape routes. Before coming down to the government building with her today, he’d scouted out the area around the building as well as the interior, and he was mentally plotting a route that would get them onto the city streets.
He looked up one more time, scanning the roofline for terrorists before leading Carrie away from the building, toward a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He was wondering how they were going to get over it when he saw that the lock on the gate was broken and the barrier was open a crack.
“This must be how they were going to get away,” he muttered as he pushed the gate farther open.
She nodded, following him through and into an alley.
He looked at the assault rifle in his hand. “I guess I can’t take this out onto the street.” First he used his shirt to wipe off his fingerprints. Then he set the weapon on the ground before hustling Carrie along the alley.
When they had turned a corner, putting another building between them and the scene of carnage, he called the safe house.
Gary Blain answered again. “Wyatt?”
“Yes. We got out of there. We’re coming back. We won’t have the town car.”
“Thank God you’re okay.” He paused. “What about Collins?”
“He didn’t make it.”
Gary absorbed that bit of bad news, then asked, “What are you going to do for transportation?”
“There’s a Zipcar agency a couple of blocks away. We can rent one of those.”
“Be careful down there, man.”
“I always am.”
When he hung up, Carrie looked at him. “What’s a Zipcar?”
“Cars you can rent by the hour. Like bicycles in Europe.”
“I didn’t know about that, either.”
Probably a function of her living in a million-dollar condo in Columbia Heights with a spectacular view of the city. He was tempted to say something about her dad’s money making it unnecessary for her to rent anything, but he decided there was no point in needling her. Not after they’d narrowly escaped getting killed—and after he’d seen what she was made of. He’d known she had the guts to turn in men plotting against the U.S. government. He hadn’t known the rest.
“Are you going to call the police now?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“We still can’t trust them. We still don’t have a handle on how those guys found out about your meeting. For all we know, the terrorists have a spy in the D.C. police department.”
She winced. “How would that be possible?”
“It just takes one bad cop who wants to supplement his income.”
“But he’d know he’d be setting us up to get killed.”
“Some people will do just about anything for money. Do you know how many people got killed because Aldrich Ames, that turncoat in the CIA, blew their cover?”
“I don’t know the exact number, but I get your point.”
“Which means I’m not taking any chances,” he answered as he led her down Tenth Street to the storefront with the Zipcar office.
The blond young man behind the counter, wearing a dress shirt and tie, looked up as they stepped in.
“We’d like a vehicle with four-wheel drive,” Wyatt said. Carrie looked surprised but said nothing.
“How long will you be needing it?”
“At least a day.”
“There will be extra charges if you turn it in later.”
“Understood.”
“Driver’s