Stranded With The Suspect. Cindi Myers
of the past two days dragged at him—the rescue of Hunter Munson, the search for Michelle and Ethan, their safe return and then the long drive to Denver to get to Andi before Metwater could reach her. He fought sleep by focusing on the Russian. Where did he fit into the picture? Metwater’s twin brother had supposedly been murdered—rather, assassinated—by the Bratva, the Russian mob, though the Chicago police had never found enough evidence to formally charge anyone with the crime. The case was still open.
When Russians had shown up in Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park and two people associated with them had ended up dead, Daniel Metwater had panicked and demanded protection from the Ranger Brigade, though he would never say why he thought the Russians were after him. The Russians turned out to be part of a smuggling ring that was trying to move into the park, and not after Metwater at all, but the cool, sophisticated mask of the Prophet had slipped for those few days, allowing Simon to see how frightened he really was.
Did he know the blond Russian was asking about him—possibly looking for him? Or was the man, as he had said, merely someone who had met Andi before who wanted to renew the acquaintance? After all, she was a very attractive woman—her pregnancy didn’t detract at all from her beauty.
The elevator opened and a man in hotel livery stepped out, carrying a tray. He moved past Simon without noticing him, head down, a bored employee on the late shift, with hours to go before he got off work. He approached the door and knocked, and after a moment it opened and he stepped inside.
Simon waited. One minute. Two. How long did it take to deliver a tray, collect the tip and leave? His heart started racing, anxiety knotting his stomach. Something about the waiter wasn’t right. Something about the way he walked was a little too familiar. His blood went cold as he realized why.
He exploded from behind the plant and raced for Andi’s room, praying he wasn’t already too late.
* * *
GONE WAS THE SERENE, confident Prophet who had mesmerized Andi so. The man before her was unshaven and dirty beneath the clean clothes he must have taken from the real room service waiter, his hair greasy and smelling of sweat. She tried to pull out of his grasp. “Let go, you’re hurting me!” she protested.
He released her, but his attitude didn’t soften. “Call for a taxi. Tell the driver to meet you across the street, in front of the bank. What have you got that I can wear? And I need a scarf for my hair. I’ll be your sister, visiting from Grand Junction.”
“Daniel, wait! What’s going on?”
“You’re going to help me get out of here, that’s what’s going on,” he said.
“What about Starfall, and that cop—Ethan? And Starfall’s baby, Hunter? Did you really try to hurt them?” She hadn’t meant to say anything about any of that, but the words tumbled out. Simon and Michelle had planted all these doubts in her head and she needed the Prophet to allay her fears.
“Who have you been talking to?” He turned on her, rage contorting his face, and before she could draw back he hit her, hard, snapping her head back and leaving her cheek stinging.
She gasped, tears filling her eyes. No one had ever hit her before—no one. “Shut up and get moving,” Metwater said. “Or I’ll make you wish you’d obeyed me when you had the chance.”
He turned back toward the door, but it burst open. Simon Woolridge didn’t hesitate; he hit Metwater hard, dropping him to his knees. He pulled flexi-cuffs from his belt and reached for the Prophet’s wrist. “Daniel Metwater, you are under arrest.”
Metwater shook his head and rose up with a roar, shoving Simon backward. Andi screamed.
“Get out of here!” Simon shouted at her. “Go to the lobby, where you’ll be safe.”
“No.” She couldn’t leave him. For that matter, she couldn’t leave the Prophet. She had to stay and see how this played out.
Metwater lunged at Simon, swinging hard. Simon dodged the punch, but crashed into an end table, sending it toppling. The Tiffany-style lamp that had been sitting on it slid to the floor and shattered into a kaleidoscope of bright shards. Andi screamed again and looked around for anything she could use to defend herself. Simon staggered to his feet, reaching for the gun in the holster at his side. A vision of him shooting the Prophet filled her head. “No!” she sobbed, and started toward him.
He turned at the sound of her voice, which gave Metwater the opening he needed to grab Simon’s arm, trying to get at the weapon. “Don’t kill him!” Andi pleaded, not even sure which man she was defending now.
The men reeled away from her, grappling, and crashed into a second table, sending more fragile ornaments cascading to the floor. Glass crunched under her feet as she backed away. She spotted the telephone on the table at the end of the sofa. She should call someone. Not the police—they were looking for Daniel. But the front desk? Housekeeping, to clean up the mess?
Fighting back hysterical laughter, she reached for the phone, just as someone pounded on the door. “Hotel security!” boomed a man’s voice. “What’s going on in there?”
Daniel Metwater jerked his head toward the door. “Don’t open it,” he growled.
“Open the door!” Simon ordered.
“If you don’t open up in five seconds, we’re coming in!” the voice on the other side said.
Andi started toward the door. She had taken only two steps when Metwater rushed past her. She reeled away from him, but he scarcely noticed. He jerked open the door and, as two uniformed men rushed in, he ran past them and down the hall.
Simon tried to run after Metwater, but the two men who had just entered the room held him back. “What’s going on here?” the first man, tall and broad-shouldered, demanded.
Simon, whose shirt was half out of his jeans and who was bleeding from his mouth, still managed to look dignified as he presented his credentials. “Agent Simon Woolridge, Ranger Brigade,” he said. “The man who ran out of here is Daniel Metwater, a wanted fugitive.” He tried to move past them again, but the men—who were dressed in the uniforms of hotel security—held him fast.
The first guard studied Simon’s credentials for a long moment before returning them to Simon. “What’s your fugitive doing in this hotel?” he asked.
“Probably getting away,” Simon said, as he tucked the leather folder back into his pocket. He shoved past the two guards, who let him go this time. He rushed out the door, footsteps pounding down the hall.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” asked the second security guard, who was short but muscular.
She nodded, and pushed her hair out of her face. “I... I’m fine,” she managed.
“We had a report of screams and crashing,” said the second man. “Sounds of a struggle.” He surveyed the broken glass and overturned tables. “Can you tell us what happened?”
She shook her head. What exactly had happened? Had the Prophet really hit her? Had he really threatened her? The violence was so unlike him. He would never want to hurt her, would he? “He burst in here, and he was terribly upset,” she began. “He’s desperate, I think. And afraid...”
Simon stepped into the room once more, breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “We’ll need to block all the entrances and conduct a search of the entire hotel.”
The two guards blinked at him. “We don’t have the authority to do something like that,” the first man said.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something?” the second man asked.
“Do you want to wait until he kills one of your guests before you do more than stand around twiddling your thumbs?” Simon snapped.
“I don’t really think the Prophet would kill anyone,” Andi protested.
“He could have killed you,” Simon said. His