Chapter 8
Darkness. The smell of mothballs and old leather. A woman's body pressed against his chest, her heartbeat hammering so hard he could feel it through both their jackets.
Gabe kept his hand firmly over her mouth, his other arm locked around her waist.
Cara Sweet. In Ruiz's motel room. Breaking and entering.
Searching.
The shock of it hit him in waves. Why? How did she even know about this place?
She'd stopped struggling the moment he'd whispered his identity, but tension radiated from every muscle. Fight or flight instincts barely held in check.
Anger burned hot in his chest. She was connected to this. Obviously.
Footsteps moved through the room outside the closet. Two sets. Heavy. Male. Not bothering to be particularly quiet now that they were inside.
"Check the bathroom." The voice was rough. Smoker's rasp. "He had to leave something."
Drawers opened. Closed. The scrape of furniture being moved.
"Nothing here."
"Keep looking."
Gabe's free hand shifted instinctively toward his Glock at the small of his back. He could draw it. Two seconds, maybe three with Cara in the way. But then what? Shoot his way through two unknowns in a confined space with a civilian pressed against him?
Bad situation. Worse odds.
He kept his hand away from the weapon. For now.
Cara's breath came shallow and fast against his palm. Her fingers had found his wrist, gripping hard. Not fighting. Just anchoring herself.
She knew how to handle high-stress situations. Knew when to freeze, when to fight, when to wait.
His jaw tightened. Whoever these men were, they weren't cops. They were searching for evidence the same way he'd planned to.
Either they worked for whoever killed Ruiz, or they were the ones who'd done it.
A shadow fell across the gap beneath the closet door.
Cara went absolutely still.
Gabe's hand moved back toward his weapon. If that door opened, he had a quarter of a second. He had no provocation to shoot. Brute force was his only play. Slam his palm into the first guy’s solar plexus, then pivot to the second before—
The doorknob started to turn.
Car doors slammed outside. Loud voices. Laughter. The kind of drunken shouting that said someone's night was just getting started.
"Where'd you put the beer?"
"In the car, genius. Where else?"
"Turn that music up!"
A woman's voice cut through the chaos from somewhere nearby. "Keep it down! People are trying to sleep!"
The shadow at the closet door retreated.
"Not worth it." The smoker's voice was tight with frustration. "Too many eyes. We'll come back."
Footsteps moved toward the door. It opened. Closed. The lock clicked from the outside.
Silence.
Gabe counted to thirty before slowly removing his hand from Cara's mouth.
She shoved him. Hard. Burst out of the closet and rounded on him, her eyes blazing in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
"Don't ever grab me like that." Her whisper was harsh. Shaking with barely contained fury.
Gabe stepped out of the closet, his own anger surging. "You would've screamed. They would have killed you."
"I didn't ask you to help me."
He moved closer, voice low and sharp. "What are you doing here? How did you even know about this place?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm FBI. I'm investigating a homicide." He gestured at the room. "You're a baker. Or is that another lie?"
Her face went carefully blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You searched this room like a pro. You knew exactly how to stay quiet, how to move, how to—" He stopped himself, breathing hard. "Who are you? Really?"
"I told you. I'm trying to help you find your brother."
"By breaking into a dead guy’s motel room in the middle of the night?" Gabe's voice rose slightly before he caught himself. He forced it back down to a harsh whisper. "That's not helping. That's obstruction. That's tampering with evidence. That's—"
"I found the room empty, just like you did." Her chin lifted. "I didn't tamper with anything."
The lie was smooth. Practiced.
And it made his blood boil.
They stood there in the darkness, breathing hard. Adrenaline and anger crackling between them like static electricity.
Her hands were still shaking. He could see it even in the poor light.
She'd been terrified. So had he. Each for entirely different reasons.
But she was lying. About something. Maybe everything.
Cara moved to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. "I'm leaving."
"We need to talk."
"No. We don't." She checked the angle through the window.
"Cara, you're connected to this. To Ruiz. To whatever got him killed. You need to tell me—"
"I don't need to tell you anything." She had one leg over the sill.
" If you run, I have to assume you're involved. That you know something about—"
But the woman from before leaned out of her room again, yelling at the drunk guests. "I said keep it down! Some of us have work in the morning!"
The distraction lasted maybe five seconds.
It was enough.
Cara slipped through the window and dropped to the ground. She landed in a crouch, absorbed the impact, and vanished into the trees with the kind of fluid grace that came from training.
Gabe reached the window in time to see her silhouette disappear into the shadows. He could go after her. Should go after her. But the drunk guests were moving in his direction now, and the last thing he needed was witnesses placing him at a crime scene.
He pulled the window closed and turned back to the room.
His flashlight beam swept across the space methodically. Bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Trash can. Nothing the intruders had missed. Nothing they'd found either, based on their frustrated searching.
He checked under the mattress. Behind the headboard. Inside the air vent.
Nothing.
His light landed on the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer.
Bible. Phone book. And in the dust on the bottom of the drawer, a perfect rectangular outline. Recently disturbed. The size and shape of a small paper.
Gabe stared at it.
The intruders hadn't found anything. He'd heard their frustration. Which meant whatever had been in this drawer was gone before they arrived.
He crouched beside the nightstand, studying the outline. His pulse kicked up as the pieces fell into place. Cara took something. She’d had more time to search than he did.
She knew how to pick locks. How to move silently and search a room. How to escape under pressure without hesitation. How to lie.
Gabe straightened slowly, his jaw tight with anger and something that felt uncomfortably like betrayal.
She was hiding something big enough to break into a crime scene for.
Big enough to lie to federal law enforcement.
Big enough to run.
He shoved his hand in his pocket, gripping his car keys. No. He was here now. Searching the room was the smart play.
Then he’d tackle Cara Sweet. Literally, if he had to.