Exposure Page 8

  "Well, I can't say that I blame him. The clock on this one is bound to be moving quickly. I spent the better part of last night going over Melissa's notes."

  "Melissa? Is that her name?"

  Nigel nodded, ignoring his friend's obvious curiosity. "She's been using her job as a photojournalist to investigate the possibility of a UN insider working to alter shipment documentation to allow for covert transportation."

  "First timer?"

  "No. Although it's the first I've heard about it."

  Payton's face hardened, and Nigel knew he was remembering his first wife. Mariam had been a piece of work, romancing Payton only to use his connections to betray him. He still bore the scars—internally and externally—although Sam, his new wife, had gone a long way toward erasing at least some of the shadows.

  "It's not the same, Payton. Honestly." Nigel held up a hand, not certain if he was trying to reassure his friend or defend Melissa. Both probably.

  Payton shrugged. "Just watch your step."

  "There's nothing to watch. What happened between us has been over for years." He stopped, realizing he was probably protesting too much. "Anyway, I won't be seeing her again."

  "You can't know that for sure. What if she discovers something else that can help us?"

  "Then you can talk to her." There was a finality to the statement that Nigel wished he truly believed, but six little bottles of Maker's Mark begged to differ.

  Payton opened his mouth to argue, but Nigel's cell phone interrupted whatever caustic remark his friend had been going to make.

  "Ferns," he said into the phone, expecting to hear Gabe or Cullen on the other end.

  "Nigel?" The voice was almost a whisper, the trace of a tremor sending shards of alarm flashing through him.

  "Melissa? Is that you?"

  Payton leaned forward, concern replacing the beginnings of an I-told-you-so smile.

  "Y-yes. Sorry, I'm having a little trouble with chattering teeth."

  "What's wrong?" Nigel barked, cutting to the chase.

  "I don't know." There was a note of frustration now. "Everything's gone crazy and I can't seem to make heads or tails of it. Look, Nigel—" she paused, and Nigel found himself holding his breath "—I think I need help."

  "Tell me where you are."

  "No." Her voice was stronger now, more decisive. "I'll come to you."

  Visions of the firelight in Iraq and Madam's betrayal flashed through his mind, but despite superficial similarities, Melissa wasn't Mariam. "Fine. I'm at the Regency, room seven-oh-one. Are you sure you don't need me to come and get you?"

  Again there was a pause, as if she were considering his offer. "No. I need to keep moving. I'll be there as soon as I can. Funding is somewhat limited, so I'll be walking part of the way."

  "Melissa? Are you sure you're all right?"

  "No," she answered with a shaky laugh, "I'm not sure of anything right now. But I do know that I need your help."

  "Right then, I'll be waiting." He held on, waiting for her answer, only to realize she'd disconnected. The thought sent a shudder of fear rocketing through him.

  "What was that about?" Payton asked, leaning forward, his expression combined with his scar making him look formidable to say the least.

  "No idea. She just said she was in trouble and needed my help. She's coining here."

  "I'll wait with you."

  "It's not necessary," Nigel said, surprising himself. "I'll handle it. You go on to headquarters and let everyone else know what's up. I'll report in as soon as I know what's happening."

  "It could be a ploy," Payton said, his distrust showing.

  "For what? She's one of yours, for God's sake. You're just projecting your past onto my situation."

  "Well, the parallel is hard to ignore," Payton said, reaching over to sign the check.

  When Payton's first wife had betrayed him—betrayed them all actually—she'd left half of the Delta team, including Payton's brother, dead. "I'm just saying you should still be careful. You said yourself you haven't seen this woman in years."

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean I don't trust her." Nigel was more than aware that he had nothing current to base his feelings on, but he meant what he said.

  "Fine." Payton shrugged. "You're a big boy, you'll take care of yourself. Just keep your eyes open and think with something besides your Johnson."

  Coming from anyone else the statement would have been insulting, but from Payton it was nothing more than common sense. He'd been there and done that and the cost had been beyond contemplation. Nigel not only understood, he sympathized.

  "No worries. I'll be careful."

  Payton nodded and stood up. "Just to cover all the bases, I'll run a check on her when I get to Cullen's. All right?"

  The last bit was thrown in as pacification, but Nigel answered anyway. "Have at it. I'm more than certain you won't uncover anything the least bit questionable."

  "We'll see." He said the words with a finality that set Nigel's alarm bells ringing.

  He hadn't seen Melissa Pope in fifteen years, and now in less than twenty-four hours she'd managed to turn his entire world topsy-turvy—and that was before even knowing what had prompted her call.

  MELISSA STOOD FOR a moment in the silence of the overhang, trying to decide if she'd done the right thing. Nigel had sounded concerned, but maybe she'd just wanted him to. No matter, the decision had been made, and whether she liked it or not, she needed help to sort through this thing.

  Help from someone with no possibility of involvement.

  Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out onto the street, turning her back on her apartment and the myriad of police vehicles. Whatever was happening there, she'd have to wait to find out.

  Leave it to Nigel to be staying on the Upper East Side, well out of five-dollar taxi range. She'd told him she was going to walk, but visibility wasn't exactly something she relished, so maybe she'd risk the subway on the chance that if someone was looking for her, they hadn't had time to initiate a fullblown search.

  The subway entrance was less than half a block away, and after checking for anyone suspicious, she darted down the stairs, using the kiosk to buy a MetroCard. One slide of the card and she was through the gate and bounding down another set of stairs, hitting the landing just as the train rumbled into the station.

  The doors opened and she dashed inside, her instincts pushing her forward, even though she wasn't aware of being followed. She grabbed a seat and watched as a young mother ushered a toddler on while wheeling a baby carriage. No one else followed, although a man in a suit and overcoat passed her door and entered farther down the car.

  The doors shut and the train rumbled off. The number five was an express, which meant that there were only six stops until Fifty-ninth street. Then from Fifty-ninth and Lex she could either use the rest of her money on a taxi to the Regency or simply walk to Park Avenue. She'd make the decision once she was safely back on the street.

  The train pulled to a stop at Wall Street, then almost before she had time to register the fact, pulled out again. No one had gotten off or on. Melissa pressed back against the cold metal of the subway car wall, keeping her gaze moving. The car wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty either, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was a sitting duck.

  And unfortunately, she hadn't a clue who the enemy was.

  The man in the overcoat had made his way closer to her seat, his gaze passing over her in a dismissing manner. Melissa contained a giggle, wondering how differently he'd have acted had she still been wearing her evening gown. Stifling her rising hysteria, she clutched her wadded-up coat closer, careful to be certain the bloody marks remained hidden.

  The train next stopped at Fulton, the mother ushering her toddler off with one hand, pushing the carriage with the other. Really a phenomenal job, motherhood. Someday maybe she'd find time for it. Or then again, maybe not. She felt a moment's sadness but pushed away the thought. Her mother had always been opposed to crying over cho
ices made, and Melissa prided herself on following suit.

  Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand than lamenting the state of her biological clock. Two teenagers stomped onto the train, their black clothing making them look like rejects from a vampire movie. Only in New York.

  The train lurched forward, and Melissa breathed a sigh of relief. Only four more stops. At the next stop no one got on, but the businessman changed his seat again, this time to the row facing Melissa's. He carried the New York Times and seemed engrossed in the business, section.

  Another mother, this time with a squealing preschooler, sat down next to her, the child reaching out sticky ringers to touch Melissa's balled-up coat. She jerked it away, and the little boy howled, his mother shooting Melissa a malevolent look. Again hysteria threatened as Melissa thought about what the woman would do if she'd let the child play with her bloody coat.

  The train pulled out of the station and then almost immediately slowed to a stop, the garbled voice of the driver coming over the speaker, announcing a short delay. Her heart started to pound and she wondered if this was how a caged animal felt. But no one else seemed to be particularly bothered, so she forced her breathing to slow and tried to keep her mind on something else, her brain obligingly trotting out the image of Nigel and last night's kiss.

  Not exactly calming thoughts...

  Still, it beat the idea of an unknown assailant hands down.

  And Nigel's kissing had, if anything, only gotten better over the years. Which meant of course that he'd been practicing, but she wasn't about to go there. In fact, she wasn't going anywhere—mentally or physically. Restless, she stood up and walked over to the map, double-checking the route.

  They'd just passed City Hall, which meant that if they ever got moving again, there were only three more stops. The speaker crackled to life with news that they would be resuming travel in a few minutes, and as if spurred on by the announcement, the train lurched forward again. Melissa moved down toward the other end of the car, well out of the way of the sticky-fingered kid, stopping to hold on to a pole when the doors opened at Union Square.

  It was tempting to get off, but it was a long walk from Union Square, and her remaining money still wouldn't cover cab fare. She was shaking now, the cold penetrating right to the bone. At least the subway car offered some warmth. Best to stay put, despite her desire to run.

  Forcing herself to take a seat, she stared out the window at the beams and plaster passing by. Two more stops. The car was crowded now, and when they stopped at Grand Central, the subway car filled to standing room only. At least, she thought, there was safety in numbers.

  Or was that an old wives' tale? The invading cold was obviously messing with her head, her responses seeming almost slo-mo. Next stop and she was out of here. The walk would be good for her, keep her blood moving and her brain clear.

  She'd made it this far without incident, and she intended to make it the rest of the way. Then she'd let Nigel take over for a while. Get some sleep and a hot bath. The idea was seductive, just the thought if it making her head light. Or maybe that was Nigel. She couldn't really tell anymore, she was so damn cold.

  The train jerked to a stop and the doors slid open, freedom beckoning. Summoning strength from God knows where, Melissa stumbled to her feet and out onto the platform, aware that an elderly couple were trying hard not to stare.

  Attention was just what she didn't need, so with considerable effort, she forced herself to walk normally to the staircase, taking the steps one at a time in what she hoped was the unhurried rhythm of a person with nothing to hide.

  At the top of the stairs, she pushed her way through the crowd. The station as always was bustling, and she consulted the signs overhead, trying to find the best exit. The Regency was at Sixty-first and Park—not all that far, but every inch mattered now, so she wanted to be certain she stayed underground until the last possible moment.

  Finally she spotted the exit she wanted and, with more energy than she'd thought possible, she sprinted up the last set of stairs into the bluster of an October New York Saturday. Taking a moment to catch her bearings, she headed west on Fifty-ninth away from the crowds of Lexington.

  Across the street she caught sight of the businessman still buried in his newspaper as he walked along. His London Fog raincoat made him look a lot like every other man on the street, and Melissa even doubted it was the same man.

  Shaking her head, she dismissed him, concentrating instead on making her way to Park. Just a little bit more. The people had thinned out considerably, the tranquility of Fifty-ninth feeling almost lonely after the hustle of Lexington. She'd wanted out of the crowd, but here, suddenly, she felt exposed.

  As if to emphasize the fact, the north wind whipped up the street, penetrating her meager clothing with icy fingers. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, still clutching her bloody coat and jeans. A Chanel-clad East-sider stepped out of her way, the look of disgust on her face something that Melissa would normally find funny, but today nothing seemed humorous.

  The woman's repulsion had brought up an important fact, however—she was hardly likely to be allowed to just waltz through the front lobby of the Regency dressed as she was. Leave it to Nigel to choose a hotel with five-star attitude. Although truthfully, smelling like she did, she'd probably be turned out of a Super Eight.

  She stopped in the shelter of a building's colonnade, praying a doorman wouldn't appear to shoo her away, and pulled out her cell phone. With trembling fingers she dialed Nigel's number and waited.

  He picked up on the first ring. "Ferris."

  "I'm almost there," she said, her voice nearly inaudible. "But they're not going to let me in. I'm a mess." That was an understatement, but she simply didn't have the time to explain further.

  "I'll meet you out front." Nigel's voice was deep with concern and she blessed him for it.

  "B.. .bring a c.. .coat, please."

  "Right."

  He clicked off, and Melissa closed her phone, pushing onward. The light at Fifty-ninth and Park cooperated nicely, turning green just as she reached it. She crossed to the northeast corner, preferring to keep to the opposite side of the street for now. She was afraid that if she stopped she'd never get started again, but she knew she needed to continue to use caution.

  About halfway down the block, she could actually see the hotel, and hope blossomed warm in her chest. She stopped at the red light, moving to stand on the Sixtieth Street side away from the hoity-toity eyes of Park Avenue. Leaning back against a building, she struggled for breath, and was just pushing off again at the turn of the light when she saw the businessman standing just up the street.

  There was no mistaking him. He'd lost the paper, and his dark expression was visible even from this distance. Melissa broke into a run, skidding out into the street heading for the curb on the opposite side. Something whizzed by her arm, leaving a trail of fire, and automatically she bent low, zigzagging like a drunk until she was safely back on Park.

  Still running, she headed across the avenue, mindless of the honking cars whizzing past. She dodged around a taxi and stumbled up onto the median, turning as she did so to try to locate the shooter.

  The street was empty.

  The businessman had disappeared.

  On a rush of adrenaline and relief, she sprinted across the southbound lane, the light in her favor this time. As she neared the corner, she saw Nigel, his face twisted with worry.

  "Are you all right?"

  "As well as can be expected considering someone just took a shot at me." She struggled for a look of nonchalance, but instead stumbled and would have fallen if his arms hadn't closed around her. She wanted to tell him more, to walk with him into the hotel, but given the proximity of safety, her legs finally gave out, the blackness she'd been fighting all morning surging up and encompassing her, her last cognizant thought that at least she'd managed to come this far on her own two feet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  N
IGEL SWUNG HER into his arms, not certain what to make of the scent that wafted up with her. She was disheveled to say the least, but what bothered him most was the bloodstain on her arm. She was clutching a coat, which seemed to be emanating the worst of the smell, but even unconscious, she clung to it fiercely, refusing to release it when he tried to dislodge it.

  He'd searched the street the minute she'd mentioned a shooter, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He suspected her pursuer had at least temporarily abandoned his quest in view of the Regency's inaccessibility. It wouldn't stop him for long, Nigel suspected, but it would buy enough time to figure out what their next move should be.

  Still holding Melissa close, he strode over to a doorman and explained the situation using as few details as possible. He'd have liked to have managed without help altogether, but he hated the idea of the spectacle they'd present if he just marched through the lobby and onto the elevator.

  Fortunately the man was well trained and asked no questions as he led them through the service entrance and to the freight elevator. The back stairs of the Regency lacked the opulence of the guest's side of the hotel, but it was immaculately clean and relatively unoccupied. In just minutes, he was safely inside his room, Melissa stirring sleepily in his arms.

  Her lips still had a bluish cast, however, and he knew he had to get her warmed up. The quickest way to do that was in the shower. Unfortunately, she clearly wasn't capable of doing it on her own, which meant a physical foray he wasn't completely certain she'd approve of. Still, given the choice between her anger and her sinking further into hypothermia, he'd pick the former.

  He laid her gently on the sofa and sprinted into the bathroom to turn on the shower. That accomplished, he returned to the sofa and gingerly tore off the sleeve of her shirt, relieved to see that the bloodstain was the result of a bullet grazing her skin rather than something worse.

  Next, he stripped her down to her panties and undershirt, trying not to think of the tantalizing skin that lay beneath the thin cotton. At the moment warmth was more important than modesty. If there was fallout he'd deal with it later. Right now he needed to get her body temperature back to normal.