Exit Strategy, page 8
part #1 of EXIT Inc. Series
A coincidence? Or had he planned that Jennings alias long ago in case he ever needed it, basing the alias on the fact that there really was a Jennings in the police force here? Regardless, at least the real policeman hadn’t been hurt, which had been her fear. She relaxed her death grip on the mattress. “That’s a relief. Thank you.”
He nodded and tapped his notebook again. “We ran a DMV search for the type of Jeep you described, which sounds like an old Wrangler to me. Tried using Mason as a first name and then as a last name.”
“Let me guess. No hits.”
“No hits. I’m sorry, Miss Hightower. I’m sure this is very frustrating for you.”
She stilled. “You sound like you might believe my story.”
“ ‘Believe’ is too strong a word. I believe in things I can see and touch, facts. And so far there aren’t too many of those to support what you’ve told me. But I also trust my gut instincts, and how to spot someone in a lie. My gut says you’re telling the truth, or what you think is the truth. And there’s one key piece of evidence that I can’t figure out how to explain away.” He waved his hand toward her gown. “I’ve seen the marks that a bullet leaves when someone’s shot wearing Kevlar. They look exactly like those marks on your ribs.”
Her breath caught and then she let it out. “I never thought I’d be grateful for getting shot tonight. But if it means you’ll keep looking into who’s trying to kill me, it was worth the pain.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely keep trying to figure all of this out. Don’t you worry about that. You said the man who allegedly abducted you was named Mason. You’re sure he never mentioned his last name? The others with him didn’t either?”
She tried not to let his “allegedly” bother her. At least he wasn’t discounting her story completely like the police in Colorado had.
“No, he didn’t tell me his last name. The only other name I heard was Ace.”
He wrote a note down. “The one you stabbed with the scissors?”
She winced. “Yes.”
“Think carefully, did you ever hear anyone refer by name to the couple that you saw?”
“No. I’ve played it over and over in my head. I never heard their names.”
A knock sounded behind him. A police officer stood in the open doorway holding Sabrina’s purse.
Donovan thanked him and handed the purse to Sabrina. “It was in your bedroom, like you said it would be.”
“Thank you so much.” She smiled at the officer, who nodded and ducked back down the hallway. “Now I can fill out all of those insurance forms the administrator was pestering me about earlier.”
“Once we’re finished here I’d like to take you back to the station to work with a sketch artist. With any luck we can get a good enough description of the people you saw tonight to identify them, if they’re in the system already.”
She set her purse aside. “You don’t have to wait. I can draw them for you.”
One of his bushy brows rose as he handed her his notebook. “You’re an artist?”
“I sold my drawings to pay my way through college, so, yeah, I guess so.”
“Why would you have to work your way through college? I thought you were a millionaire. That’s what the police in Boulder said when they told me about your police record.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say the Boulder police have ever worried all that much about accuracy. At least not where I’m concerned.” At his admonishing look, she cleared her throat and continued. “My grandfather is the one who controls the Hightower fortune. He set up fairly complicated trusts for his grandchildren. I couldn’t get a penny out until I turned twenty-one. Now I receive a monthly allowance, which increases every year. Once I turn thirty, I’ll have access to all of it. But until then, I have to stick to a budget like anyone else.”
“I bet that makes you resent him, or at least, until he disappeared not too long ago.”
She bristled at the implied accusation. “Let me guess. The cops in Boulder told you they suspect me for my grandfather’s disappearance too.”
“Actually, no. They said you had an ironclad alibi for when he went missing. I was just asking a question, more out of curiosity I suppose. Comes with the territory.”
Her face heated with embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m touchy when it comes to Grampy Hightower. I don’t begrudge his decision to dole out his money the way he does. He wants his grandchildren to value hard work and understand how hard it is to earn a living, so we don’t take it for granted. He learned that giving someone millions of dollars from day one creates self-centered people who care more about their next jaunt through Europe than the family they left behind.”
She bit her lip, belatedly regretting her outburst.
“You’re talking about your parents I assume?”
She picked the pencil up. “I’m finished talking for the moment. I’ll work on the sketches now if you don’t mind.”
Another knock sounded. She looked up to see a man in lime-green scrubs pushing a wheelchair.
“I’m here to take you to radiology, Miss Hightower.”
SABRINA CHECKED THE security alarm panel by the front door, again. Was this the sixth time she’d done that since getting home? The seventh? After last night, she definitely didn’t trust the alarm—even though her new bodyguards had tested it and confirmed it was working. How could she trust it when she knew she’d set it last night but it hadn’t gone off when Mason had broken in? And yet, when Detective Donovan had spoken to the alarm company to verify her story, they’d insisted that she hadn’t set it. Once it was a decent hour, she fully intended to call them back and insist that they send someone to inspect the system. But first she needed to get some sleep. If she could sleep.
It didn’t matter that she had three bodyguards to watch over her. She didn’t think she’d ever feel safe here again, not until she could figure out who wanted her dead. But at least she had one person on her side: Detective Donovan. He might not buy her whole story yet, but he was intrigued enough to keep digging. It was refreshing to have a police officer not assume the worst about her for a change.
But just like Mason had warned her, the police couldn’t offer protection—thus the security guards. And since she was on unpaid administrative leave until her year of exile from Colorado was over, she couldn’t really afford the guards. She couldn’t have even afforded the nice home she was renting if it weren’t for the bad economy. The desperate homeowner had slashed the price in order to get someone into the long-vacant house. But even with a cheap lease, she still struggled with too much month at the end of her money.
When it came time for another payment to the private detectives who were trying to find clues in her grandfather’s disappearance, and to the lawyers who were pressing the lawsuit over her parents’ deaths, she might be forced to let the guards go. It all depended on how quickly she could sell more of the expensive antique furniture her grandfather had gifted to her over the years, and how much money she could get for it. The furniture had sentimental value worth far more than its cost, but she’d give everything she had if it meant she could see Grampy’s smiling face even one more time.
That was a bridge she’d have to cross later. For now, she was grateful to be home, even if she didn’t feel nearly as safe as when Mason had been the one watching over her. Mason. Every time she thought about him she got more and more confused. So confused, in fact, that after giving Donovan sketches of Ace and the couple from the Hummer, she’d made dozens of starts and stops trying to draw Mason. She’d finally told the detective that she’d been so scared of Mason that she’d never really looked him full-on in the face and couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like.
Donovan had readily accepted her lies, patting her shoulder to console her, and assuring her that he’d do his best to get the local TV news station to broadcast the other sketches. Maybe someone would recognize Ace and the couple and would come forward.
Of course she hadn’t forgotten what Mason looked like. She’d drawn him in a matter of minutes, while the detective was out of the room taking a smoke break. But she’d felt like a traitor at the thought of turning the picture over to the police. Her mind told her that was silly, crazy. But her heart kept telling her there was more to Mason than she knew, that he’d proven he was really a good guy over and over, that she owed him for saving her life. In the end, she’d folded the paper with his likeness and had shoved it into her jeans pocket.
She thunked her forehead against the wall beside the security panel.
“Miss Hightower?”
She turned toward the sound of the bodyguard’s voice. Which one was he again? What was his name? He stood at the end of the foyer, in the opening to the main room at the front of the house, impeccably dressed in an expensive dove-gray suit. She hesitated, wishing her memory of what she’d heard was as good as her memory of what she’d seen. Was it really too much to ask that the bodyguards wear name tags?
“Vince,” he said. “My name? That is what you were trying so hard to remember just now, right?”
“Vince Barton,” she said, his full name finally coming to her as she headed toward him. “Sorry, it’s late. Or, early, I guess?” She rubbed her temple to ease the pressure there. “What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Not that early. Nine-thirty in the morning, ma’am.”
She winced. “I’ve been up all night.”
“If you want to go upstairs and get some sleep, I promise you don’t have to worry about your safety.” He patted the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m armed and dangerous,” he teased. “No one’s getting in on my watch. The other guards are taking turns patrolling the property and checking all the entry points down here. There will be at least two of us inside the house at all times. You’re completely safe.”
His high-wattage smile had her realizing how completely exhausted she must be. Because if a man as gorgeous and perfect-looking as Vince Barton had graced her with that smile at any other time, she’d have been blushing like a schoolgirl. Instead, she was just annoyed. He seemed too confident: of his looks, of his abilities, or both. She’d been extremely detailed in her description of what had happened last night and the people who’d abducted her. Shouldn’t he be more serious, more alert, more . . . concerned?
Maybe tomorrow she’d hire a different security company, one whose guards weren’t quite so polished or polite or . . . pretty. Maybe they’d send someone taller than Vince Barton, brawnier, with hair that was too long and unkempt, and a hard, angular face that needed a shave. A man who looked like he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and had learned to fight without rules, using whatever means were necessary to survive.
A man like Mason.
She pressed her hand to her temple again.
“Miss Hightower? Do you need me to get you something? Aspirin? A glass of water?”
She forced her hand down. Okay, maybe this bodyguard, Vince, was more observant than she’d given him credit for. Maybe he wasn’t just a pretty face. She should trust him and do what he’d suggested, get some sleep. She’d been up over twenty-four hours straight, and even with her glasses on, she could barely focus anymore.
“I’ve got everything I need upstairs.” It was time for more pain pills anyway, for her bruised ribs. Luckily the hospital pharmacy had filled her prescription before she left.
“Good night, Vince. And thank you, and the others, for rearranging your schedules so you could take me on as a client without any advance notice.”
“It’s our pleasure, ma’am.” Too-polite Vince stepped back to let her pass.
She headed up the front stairs. But even knowing the house was locked, that the temperamental alarm was set, and that three professional bodyguards had searched from top to bottom for intruders after Detective Donovan drove her home, she couldn’t help the prickle of fear that skittered up her spine.
She reached the top of the stairs and headed toward her bedroom. Everything was neat and clean, like the rest of the house, as if nothing bad had happened. She’d studied the couch downstairs earlier, trying to find a trace of her blood from the cut on her arm, but it was clean, pristine.
When she saw the spot on the table by the bed where the now broken lamp used to sit, she started to shake. In spite of everything else some mysterious person had done to make the house look untouched, they’d been unable to fix the glass in the French door, or glue that lamp back together. For those small favors, she was grateful. It proved she wasn’t going crazy.
Still, knowing someone had been here covering their tracks gave her a bone-deep chill. It proved how vulnerable she really was. She should leave, move out of this house. But where would she go? She couldn’t just disappear. She still had to keep her investigators and lawyers pushing for answers regarding both her grandfather and her parents. Tomorrow. Or later today, really, she’d make some kind of decision about her future. But right now she needed sleep more than anything else. A shower sounded wonderful, but she was suddenly too tired to even think.
After swallowing some pain pills, she was about to strip down to her underwear and put on a nightshirt, but the thought of going to bed that way again made her feel far too vulnerable. Instead, she wadded up the shirt and jeans that weren’t hers and tossed them in the bedroom trash. She grabbed one of her own shirts from the closet and her own jeans, put them on, and then slid between the sheets fully dressed.
The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the five-by-seven framed picture on her dresser, the one of her with her parents wearing the green
T-shirts the tour company had given them. It had been taken just moments before her parents had plunged to their deaths over a gorge because of a faulty zip line.
Unbidden, hot tears coursed down her cheeks. That day had started out as one of the happiest of her life, one of the few times that her parents had actually wanted to include her on one of their adventures. But after the horrible accident, she was left bitterly regretting that she’d surprised her parents by purchasing them an anniversary trip package. She cursed the day she’d ever heard of EXtreme International Tours, Incorporated.
Chapter Seven
Day Two—5:30 p.m.
Cyprian Cardenas looked over the podium at the crowded lobby of EXIT Incorporated’s newest location just outside of Asheville, North Carolina, carefully maintaining his smile for the reporters. His daughter, Melissa, had basically bribed every newspaper features editor or vacation magazine contributor within a three-hundred-mile radius to cover the grand opening. It was costing a fortune in free tours, but Melissa was a savvy businesswoman and Cyprian didn’t doubt that the resulting press coverage would more than make up for the freebies.
The only true downside was that his work was piling up while he had to stand here answering the same lame questions the press asked at nearly every event Melissa put together. One of the more egregious of the reporters today, Kaysen Landry from the Citizen-Times newspaper, was waving her hand with yet another question, probably as juvenile as the last one. When all of the other reporters’ questions were answered and the young woman was still waving her hand, he braced himself and called on her.
“Yes, Miss Landry?”
“Mr. Cardenas, can you tell me again what EXIT stands for?”
The pen in his hand snapped in two. Luckily his hand was hidden from view. What exactly had this woman been doing for the past half hour if she still didn’t know what his company’s acronym stood for?
“EXtreme International Tours.”
The puzzled look on her face had him dreading her next question.
“But you’re opening this facility here in Asheville, offering the same kinds of local tours other companies do—horseback riding, whitewater rafting, zip lining. How is that extreme or international when your only other office location is in Boulder, Colorado?”
“As I explained earlier,” he reminded her, “our tours provide clients with a more intense experience than other companies. We cater to thrill seekers. We have unique tour experiences that will stretch each client to their physical and mental limitations. And as the ‘international’ portion of our name implies, we offer packages in sixteen countries across four continents through several satellite branches of EXIT Inc. If there’s something you want to do in the wild outdoors anywhere in the world, we’ll make sure you have a safe, exciting adventure.”
He swept his hand to his right, indicating the six men and women in traditional green EXIT tour T-shirts sitting at the table beside the podium. “The real experts of EXIT are right here and can answer—”
“Mr. Cardenas,” the same reporter called out again.
Something about the barely contained excitement on Kaysen Landry’s face put Cyprian on alert. What was she up to? “Yes?”
“You say that your guides ensure each client’s safety. But there was an accident on one of your tours in Colorado just two months ago that claimed the lives of Mr. and Mrs. John Hightower. Their surviving daughter, Sabrina Hightower, is currently suing both you personally and your corporation for negligence. How can the residents of Asheville feel secure scheduling tours with your company when some clients have actually died on previous tours?”
The room grew silent and every eye focused on Cyprian. Even the greeters at the door and the security guards roaming the room had stopped to see how he would respond.
He noted Landry’s smug look. She’d sandbagged him, making him think she was harmless, clueless, when she was actually quite clever. Her earlier questions had done exactly what she’d intended—made him careless, backed him into a corner, so he looked like a fool when she threw that zinger at him.
