a second, there was nothing but silence. Then she heard the familiar rumble of Alexander Quinn’s voice. “Where did you get this number, Ms. Coltrane?”
“Anson Daughtry,” she answered, nearly fainting with relief. “He’s in trouble.”
* * *
THE WHITE POWDER spread across the toilet water and began to dissolve more quickly than Anson had expected. He’d figured if it were cocaine, as he suspected, it might be cut with something that would make it harder for the powder to dissolve, but what he was looking at was apparently high-grade coke. Only a small amount of residue remained in the bottom of the toilet bowl after he emptied the bag into the bowl.
On the chance that the men he could hear moving around outside the bathroom door decided to kick down the door before Quinn could send reinforcements, Anson climbed into the built-in tub as Ginny had suggested.
He’d barely flattened himself to the wall under the shower faucet when he heard the doorknob rattle.
“Locked,” he heard a male voice mutter. A second voice answered with a vulgar epithet.
“We’ll come back to it,” the first voice said, and Anson heard footsteps moving away from the bathroom door.
He closed his eyes and released a long, quiet breath as he pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the time. Five minutes had come and gone. He hadn’t actually promised Ginny he’d call, but the thought of her sitting there worrying about him on top of all the stress already pressing down on her was more than he could stand.
He dialed her number. She answered on the first ring. “Anson?”
“Did you get Quinn?” he whispered.
“Yes. He said to tell you he was on the way with reinforcements.”
Anson laid his head back against the tub wall. “Thank you. Did he give you any trouble?”
“You forgot to tell me there was some sort of code involved. I thought he was going to hang up on me.”
“Sorry.” He’d forgotten about the code himself. “How’s Danny? Still hanging in there okay?”
She was silent for a long moment before she finally spoke. “You’re worrying about Danny at a time like this?”
“Just trying to distract myself from the men wandering around outside the bathroom, biding their time before they decide to bust down the door and shoot my trouble-prone ass.”
“Danny’s fine,” she answered tightly. “Please don’t let anybody shoot you, okay?”
“Worried about me?”
“Thinking about how hard it is to get blood out of tile grout,” she answered bluntly.
He bit back surprised laughter. “You’re a hard-hearted woman.”
“It’s hard keeping a nice house, working as many hours as I do.” Her voice softened. “And I’m worried about you.”
“They’re leaving the bathroom for later,” he told her. “I don’t think they suspect yet that anyone is here.”
“What if they see your car?”
“Maybe they’ll think it’s Danny’s.”
“Danny doesn’t have a car. His license got suspended last year for a DUI. He’s not allowed to drive. Everybody who knows him knows that. He sold his car to pay the fines.”
Good God, Anson thought. Ginny was either a saint or a fool to put up with a brother like that. “If they start to get serious about coming in here, I’m going out the window,” he told her. “I think I’ll have enough of a head start to beat them outside, but I’m not sure I can get to my car.”
“The woods are deep. Head east and you’ll hit the main highway back to Purgatory.”
A moment later, he heard the doorknob rattle again. His cue, he thought. “I’m going out the window.”
“Be careful!” Her voice rang with worry.
He hung up, shoved his phone into his pocket and climbed out of the tub, not bothering with stealth. He flipped the lock and gave the window a hard upward shove. It slid open with a loud creak, making him wince.
Climbing onto the toilet seat, he pushed himself out the window headfirst, twisting as he went. He hit hard on the ground below, landing on his knees. A sharp rock dug into the flesh of his right shin, eliciting a soft curse. Then he was up and running, ignoring the pains shooting through his battered body like bolts of lightning racing across a stormy sky.
As he neared the corner of the house, he heard the back door opening, the screen door creaking.
Reversing direction, he bolted toward the woods, hoping he was heading east. He heard a bark of gunfire behind him, but the bullet thudded into a tree several feet away. Still, he zigzagged as he ran, not wanting to present an easy target.
Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable click of a rifle bolt being shoved into position. He froze in place, his heart rattling wildly in his chest.
“Daughtry.”
He turned slowly and found himself looking at a tall, black-clad figure holding a large, terrifying-looking rifle. It took him a moment to look beyond the rifle barrel to see familiar eyes glittering in the waning moonlight.
“Brand,” he breathed, his knees shaky as he recognized one of Quinn’s top agents.
“What’s the situation?” Adam Brand asked, sounding like the FBI agent he used to be.
“I was getting some clothes for Ginny Coltrane—long story,” he added at the sight of Brand’s quirked eyebrows. “While I was there, I heard someone break into the house through the front windows. I was on the phone with Ginny and had her call Quinn.”
Brand nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Why Quinn and not the police?”
Yeah, Anson thought, suddenly feeling stupid. Why Quinn and not the police, again? Oh, yeah, because you dumped several ounces of illegal coke down the toilet and didn’t want the cops to find out.
“I didn’t want the local yokels to mistake me for one of the intruders,” he answered, hoping that would be answer enough.
“My wife is one of the local yokels,” Brand said bluntly.
Well, hell. So she is. “Not her jurisdiction, though.”
“I wouldn’t use that excuse with Dennison,” Brand warned, motioning for Anson to follow him deeper into the woods. “This is his fiancée’s jurisdiction.”
“Right.” What was it about The Gates agents and their fetish for women in uniform, anyway? “Is there a team going into the house?”
“Not my assignment,” Brand said, starting to pull ahead. Grimacing against the lingering ache in his battered limbs, Anson hurried to catch up.
* * *
“YOU’LL HAVE TO take stock to tell us if anything is missing.” Alexander Quinn’s voice was a reassuring rumble on the other end of the call. “The intruders were gone when the team I sent entered the house. I guess Daughtry spooked them and they left.”
Ginny leaned her head back against the recliner, the adrenaline that had kept her going for the past few hours starting to drain, leaving only bone-deep weariness in its wake. “And Anson’s okay?”
“He says he’s fine.” Quinn’s voice dipped lower. “He looks like hell, though. I understand he took a beating tonight?”
She closed her eyes, remembering the sight of Anson’s battered face. “He took a beating for my brother and me.”
“He also tried to hide evidence for you,” Quinn said flatly.
“It was my idea,” she said.