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