Czytaj książkę: «Amish Hideout»

ONE

Time was running out for Celeste Alexander. Her sneakered feet tapped on the floor beneath the desk. Her fingers flew over the keyboard so quickly it seemed more like a rapid dance than typing, knowing each keystroke could be her last before US Marshal Jonathan Mast arrived to escort her to her new life in the witness protection program. The early-morning sky lay dark over wintery Pennsylvania farmland outside the safe house window. She knew she should sleep. After all, she had no idea how long the journey ahead would be until she finally reached the small apartment in Pittsburgh that would be her new home for the months until she testified at Dexter Thomes’s trial.

It had been almost two weeks since an evil but genius computer hacker, who went by the online handle “Poindexter,” had stolen tens of millions of dollars out of the bank accounts of thousands of ordinary Americans in one of the largest bank heists in history, without even leaving his chair. But she’d found him and now he sat in a jail cell, thanks to a single curious thread that Celeste had started following online. When she’d gathered all the evidence she could, she’d tipped off the feds, and Dexter had been arrested. News had quickly spread through the online community that a self-employed computer programmer—a blonde, twenty-six-year-old woman, no less—had uncovered the true identity of the criminal the feds’ best minds hadn’t been able to find.

But the stolen money still hadn’t been recovered. The thought of letting a single one of those people wake up one more day with an empty bank account was unthinkable. Not while there was something she could do about it. She frowned. The battery was down to less than 10 percent and she’d forgotten the charging cable in the room upstairs where she’d slept last night.

“You gave her a laptop?” The voice of US Marshal Stacy Preston came sharply from somewhere behind her. “Please tell me you didn’t let her go online. The last thing we need is another misguided Poindexter fan trying to come after her and keep her from testif—”

“Really? You think I joined the service yesterday?” US Marshal Karl Adams shot back even before Stacy had finished her sentence. From what Celeste had seen, those two didn’t talk so much as volley sentences back and forth like some kind of verbal tennis match. “Of course not! She had a basic tablet with the internet capability disabled, and after scanning it for bugs, I let her borrow a keyboard.”

“And you didn’t think to check with me?”

“You were asleep!” Karl said. “Do you check every decision you make with me while you’re the one on lookout? It’s got zero internet capability. It’s not like I gave her a cell phone.”

Celeste gritted her teeth, blocked out the verbal sparring of the two US marshals in the room behind her and their sporadic walkie-talkie exchanges with the other marshals positioned around the remote property, and focused her eyes on the text streaming down the screen. Dexter might be in jail. But this would never truly be over. Not until the stolen money was found.

She breathed the prayer and kept typing, ignoring the red low-battery warning. Three days ago, she’d been seconds away from alerting the feds of her crazy suspicion that the unemployed college dropout she’d been digging into online was in fact Poindexter himself, when she’d felt what she thought was God prompting her to first download a complete backup copy of every line of code of his she could see. It had been the right move. By the time the feds broke down his door, Dexter’s machines had been wiped clean. But if the feds had found anything in the data she’d recovered, she hadn’t heard. Already she could see patterns in the data, though. Many sequences were eight or nine numbers long. Maybe phone numbers and social security numbers? If almost fifteen years of computer programing had taught her anything it was that nothing was ever truly random, no matter how it seemed. In the same way, there was always method and order in what God called her to do. At least, that was how she chose to see it and that was the hope she’d clung to when her apartment went up in a ball of flames.

She’d had no idea just how high a price she’d end up paying when Dexter had shot her a single flippant and cocky message on an online forum about Poindexter’s crime. She’d almost ignored it. The online world was a minefield filled with the kind of rude men who seemed to like insulting women for kicks. But something about the glowing way he’d referred to Poindexter in his posts made her suspect he was more than just an admirer of his. So, she’d figured out a way to track him down and followed the right lines of code to prove her hunch was right.

Finding him was the easy part. Getting over her own doubts had been harder. After all, she was a nobody—a freelance computer programmer living on her own in a tiny downtown Philadelphia apartment, taking on small projects while she looked for a full-time job and saved up her pennies to one day move out to the country and have a house of her own. The feds had promised her that she could remain anonymous. But even from behind bars, Dexter had other plans. Within hours of his arrest, her identity had been posted online and her entire nest egg had disappeared from her bank account. Two days later her apartment had exploded just as she’d been steps away from walking through the door. Now, less than twenty-four hours after losing everything but the clothes on her back and the contents of her purse, she sat in a Pennsylvania safe house, clinging to her belief that this was somehow still all part of God’s plan for her life.

The two US marshals behind her seemed to be fiddling with their walkie-talkies. Not that she could make out much of their actual words, just the clicks of them fiddling with the dials and switching channels, and a low murmur of concerned conversation.

“Is everything okay?” Celeste turned and looked over her shoulder, suddenly feeling very aware of her long blond hair as it brushed against her neck and shoulders. Would they make her cut it? Would they make her wear colored contacts to hide the natural green of her eyes? Would she ever be able to go back to writing computer code? Just how much about her life was going to change?

Stacy and Karl exchanged a glance. The pair had been the ones who’d picked her up from the Philadelphia police station and brought her here. Ginger-haired with a lazy grin, Karl’s more laid-back attitude had seemed to balance Stacy’s more focused approach, despite the fact the there was an odd tension between them, like cats with static electricity. Right now, both of them were frowning.

“Marshal Mast is running late,” Stacy said. She brushed her fingers along her temple and tucked a wisp of chestnut hair back into her tight French braid. “We haven’t been able to reach him. But at last check-in, Marshal Cormac, who’s patrolling the perimeter, reported that nothing seemed off.”

“Jonathan’s phone probably died.” A professional smile brushed Karl’s square-jawed face, and Celeste had the distinct impression he was doing it to be reassuring. “He’s technophobic, by the way. So whatever you’re working on, you’d better get it done before he gets here, because it’s possible he’ll make you give up the tablet.”

He couldn’t. Could he? She’d disabled its internet capability herself, and no one had touched it but her and the feds. It was as harmless as a piece of technology could be. The walkie-talkies crackled again. The marshals went back to talking in hushed whispers. She blocked them out, along with that old familiar nagging headache that always started in her temples before slowly spreading through her shoulders and arms until the very tips of her fingers seemed to ache. If US Marshal Jonathan Mast was technophobic, then she’d just have to outrace him and find where Dexter had hidden the money before he got there.

The battery died. She groaned. Well, that was that.

“You guys mind if I go upstairs and get my charging cable? The battery’s dead.”

The room went black. Then she heard the distant sound of gunfire erupting outside.

“Get Celeste away from the windows!” Karl shouted. “I’ll cover the front.”

What was happening? Lord, help us! Prayers and panic battled in her heart as she felt Stacy’s strong hand on her arm pulling her out of her chair and pushing her toward the hallway.

“Stay low and stay close,” Stacy said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“No, wait!” Celeste pulled away. “I need the tablet.”

The data had been scrubbed from the internet, and the feds were stumped. Leaving without it would mean giving up any hope of finding the money. Wrenching her arm from the marshal’s grasp, she reached up and grabbed the tablet, yanking it from the cord and stuffing it inside her sweatshirt.

“Come on!” Stacy shouted. “We have to hurry—”

Her voice was swallowed up in the sound of an explosion, expanding and roaring around them, shattering the windows, tossing Celeste backward and engulfing the living room in smoke. Celeste hit the floor, rolled and hit a door frame. She crawled through it, trying to get away from the smoke billowing behind her. Her eyes stung. The sound of gunfire grew louder. Stacy yelled something about gunmen in the yard. Karl’s voice sounded from the darkness telling Celeste to find cover. Her heart beat so hard in her chest she could barely move.

Dexter had found her. Somehow he’d found her in a witness protection safe house. And now he was going to kill her.

Suddenly a strong hand grabbed her out of the darkness, taking her by the arm and pulling her up to her feet so sharply she stumbled backward into a small room. The door closed behind them. She opened her mouth to scream, but a second hand clamped firmly but not unkindly over her mouth. A flashlight flickered on and she looked up through the smoky haze, past worn blue jeans and a leather jacket, to see the strong lines of a firm jaw trimmed with a black beard, a straight nose and, finally, deep and dark, serious eyes staring into hers.

“Celeste Alexander?” He flashed a badge. “I’m Marshal Jonathan Mast. Stay close. I’ll keep you safe.”

Huge green eyes looked up at him, framed with long dark lashes and wide with fear. Blond hair fell in thick waves around a heart-shaped face. A sweatshirt and faded jeans fell loose over her slender and unmistakably shapely form. He was thankful to see she was wearing shoes and clothes that she could run in. The panicked breath that brushed hot and fast against his palm began to slow. Something stirred deep inside his chest. This was Celeste Alexander? This was the brilliant computer expert that Dexter Thomes would seemingly stop at nothing to keep from testifying at his trial? Of course Jonathan had seen her picture when he’d read her file and picked up the basics: twenty-six, only child, orphaned in college, freelance computer programmer. But somehow it hadn’t prepared him for just how beautiful and vulnerable she’d seem.

Help me protect her, Gott.

A prayer crossed his heart so instinctively it shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed for anyone or anything, let alone using the old Pennsylvania Dutch word for “God” from his Amish childhood faith. He and the God of his childhood had been on strict nonspeaking terms since he’d been eighteen, his mother had died and the pain of losing his mamm had made him realize he had to choose between the community he came from and the call to serve and protect as a cop. Somehow it had just welled up inside him, taking both his heart and mind by surprise.

He eased his hand away from Celeste’s lips. “Are you all right, Miss Alexander?”

“I’m okay, and please call me Celeste,” she said, taking a step back and shaking off his hand. Faint tears glittered in the corners of her eyes, and he suspected she was “okay” mostly because she’d decided to be. “Can I call you Jonathan?”

“Sure thing.” He nodded, appreciating her directness.

“How did you even know how to find me?” she asked. “I couldn’t see a thing.”

“I helped my dad evacuate a major barn fire when I was a child,” he said. “People and animals. Guess some of it stuck with me.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d told her that. His childhood was about as comfortable a conversation as his faith was. He’d loved everything about growing up plain except for the fact the Ordnung guidelines that ordered society made it clear that being Amish and a cop were incompatible. Not that he expected a city-dwelling computer programmer to feel anything but disdain or amusement at a life without technology. But, judging by the way her shoulders relaxed, it seemed to set her at ease. “Did everyone make it out alive? From the barn fire?”

“Yes, they did.” A slight and unexpected grin brushed his lips. “Even the barn cats. And I’m going to get you out of here alive and safely now. When did you get here?”

“Last night.” Those compelling eyes grew wider.

He frowned. He disliked informing a subject of too much of an operation, but the walkie-talkies were down and she had information he needed. Hopefully, she was as levelheaded as her file had led him to believe.

“On my way here I got an email from Marshal Karl Adams telling me that there was a change of plans and you weren’t arriving until tomorrow,” he said. The rise of her brows told him in an instant how right he’d been to suspect something was up. “It told me to turn around and go home. But I decided to proceed. As I got closer, I saw a black SUV parked by the road ahead and no one was answering the walkie-talkie. So I called for backup and hid my vehicle, then cut through the woods and came in through an underground tunnel entrance. How many hostiles have you seen?”

“None,” she said. “I just saw the explosion and heard gunfire. I was with Stacy and Karl in the living room and then the windows exploded. There was just so much smoke and gunfire I barely knew which way was up. We need to make sure they’re okay. I really don’t think Karl sent that email. He seems pretty straight up. They both do. I suspect someone hacked his email and also jammed the walkie-talkies.”

She was probably right about Karl. In fact, Karl’s casual openness about his Christian faith had the irritating habit of reminding Jonathan how much he missed his own.

“Well, if you can get me to the walkie-talkie jammer, I can disable it so you can be back in communication with your team.”

Her chin rose. He blinked. He was here to protect her. She was the one in danger and she was offering to help him?

“Agents Preston and Adams are well trained and dedicated, as are the other marshals on-site,” he said. Without a doubt they were all currently risking their lives to find and protect Celeste. “Contacting them and letting them know you’re all right will be my top priority, once I’ve got you to safety. Right now, all that matters is getting you out of here alive. Follow me and I’ll take you out the way I came in.”

He switched off the flashlight and waited for his eyes to adjust. One of the benefits of growing up plain was that he’d always known the darkness as a friend to be embraced and not an enemy to be combatted with a glare of electric lights. Sunrise was less than twenty minutes away. He needed to get her into his truck before then. He eased the door open a crack and listened. Gunfire sounded in intermittent bursts from somewhere else on the property. Smoke seeped down the hall, but he neither felt nor heard flames. It had been a small explosive device, he imagined, just intended to take out the front door and windows, making it easier to breach the building.

He steadied himself to lead her down the hall to freedom, but instead felt the furtive brush of her hand on his arm. “I need to go back to my room. It’s upstairs.”

“I’m sorry, there isn’t time.” He didn’t turn. “But there’s a bag of spare winter clothes hidden in the passage and more necessities in my truck.”

“But I need a charger for my tablet—”

“No, you don’t. You shouldn’t be on the grid at all.”

Again Jonathan readied himself to go. This time her hand tightened on his arm.

“I wasn’t planning on going ‘on the grid.’ I need to review some of Dexter Thomes’s data while completely off the grid, and until I can get my tablet charged, it’s dead.”

Something as strong as iron moved through her voice. Even in the dim light he could see the firm jut of her shoulders. He remembered looking at her file and wondered how anyone—let alone a well-meaning citizen—could possibly have the patience and determination to sit at a computer for eighteen hours chasing down a criminal hacker. Now he was beginning to see. “The feds have people chasing the money. All you need to focus on is staying alive long enough to testify.”

Gunfire erupted somewhere to their right. He could hear the voices of US marshals shouting. Sounded like hostiles were about to breach the house. Then he heard a familiar voice coming down the hall. He stepped through the door, keeping Celeste safely behind him.

“Karl!” he called, relief filling his chest as his eyes fell on the familiar form. “I have Celeste! I’m taking her out through the underground passage. I’ve called for backup and I’ll get in touch once we’re safe.”

“Thank You, God,” Karl prayed. He said, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. We have four hostiles on the perimeter. Stacy is holding down the front door. Communication’s down.” Gunfire grew louder. Stacy’s voice echoed through the darkness, calling for Karl. “Stay safe.”

“You, too.”

Karl turned and ran toward the front of the house. Jonathan reached for Celeste’s hand, enveloped it in his and ran down the hallway. They pushed through a door into a large country kitchen. He closed the door behind them, then glanced down at the woman whose small hand had slid so naturally into his. He dropped her hand, an odd heat rising to his face. Now why had he done that? They started across the kitchen floor toward the cellar. Suddenly the door behind them flew back. A thin man in a dark ski mask burst through with a gun in his grasp. Celeste screamed. The man set her in his sights and fired. But Jonathan had thrown himself between Celeste and the gunman before the bullet could meet its mark. They tumbled to the ground as he heard the bullet strike the wall behind them.

Jonathan rolled up to one knee and returned fire. The gunman fell back behind the door. “Celeste! Get behind the counter and stay low!”

Jonathan gritted his teeth and braced his hand against the wooden floorboards. There was no way to reach the cellar now, not without running straight into the line of fire. Even if they managed to make it, they’d tip the criminal off about where they were going and there’d be nothing to stop him from following. He’d spent the first eighteen years of his life in a huge country kitchen like this one and now he was going to die in one, trying to protect a woman he’d barely met and yet who had already managed to tug at strings he hadn’t even known he had. Another bullet flew through the kitchen door, shredding the corner of the countertop and sending wood chips flying. Suddenly he knew their way out.

“Celeste! There’s a pantry behind you. Crawl inside and wait for me there.”

“Got it!” She started crawling, and he followed, keeping low to the ground. They reached the pantry and slipped inside. He closed the door behind them and pushed a shelf against it.

“Now, stand back,” he said. She pressed her back against the wall, whispered words tumbling from her lips. The tension in his heart tightened to realize she was praying, and when he spoke again his voice felt oddly husky in his throat. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. There’s more than one way into the cellar.”

He holstered his weapon, bent down and felt with his fingers along the floorboards. Then he pulled out his pocketknife and slid the blade between the head of one of the loosest nails and the well-worn wood. Within moments he’d worked it free. He moved on to the next. All he had to do was remove two boards and that should be enough for them to slip through. Voices shouted in the kitchen beyond them. Sounded like the gunman had been joined by a second. He worked the board loose and pried it back. Then he grabbed the one beside it and yanked it off, as well. A hole lay at their feet. It was a crude means of escape and once someone checked the pantry it would be clear where they’d gone, but hopefully it would buy them enough time to get a head start.

“I’m going to jump down now,” he said. “It’s only about eight feet. When I call you I need you to jump in after me and I’ll catch you. Okay? Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.”

He reached for her again. He felt her fingers slide between his and squeeze. Then he pulled away.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded. He dropped through the hole and tumbled into darkness.