Page 37 of Shane
“B-because…” Their prisoner sucked in a shuddering breath. “That’s not who I am anymore. After Freddy died, I went back to my maiden name. I’m just Tuesday Smart now.”
Shane froze at the tremor of real terror in her voice. He knew fear when he heard it, and this woman was a walking, quivering mess of it. At least she was playing the part well. Her parents were both dead, and right then, Ms. Bremmer, err, Ms. Smart sounded more like a frightened little girl than a savvy killer on the run. Was she him all over again, a victim of circumstances that had forced her to make decisions that may or may not’ve been in her best interest? Like marrying a guy forty-two years her senior. Like Shane joining the Corps too soon after his mother’s funeral. He should’ve waited that one recommended year before he’d dumped his old life and enlisted. Ms. Smart had only been seventeen when she’d married Lamb. Had she simply hooked up with an older man who—
She. Murdered. Her. Kids.
Allegedly.
Shane shook off the sensual allure of thefemme fataleat his hand. But despite the fact that he’d read Ms. Bremmer’s complete file, he still wasn’t sure what he knew. Was it possible for a kid who’d done as well in high school as she had to turn into a cold-blooded killer overnight? Yeah, sure. Maybe. Her life had been turned upside-down, and who knew what emotional distress she’d gone through when she’d lost her mom and dad?
Shane. That’s who. He’d been there, done something just as impetuous, just as foolish. Had the drab, OD-green, USMC t-shirt to prove how easily grief messed with a young, inexperienced kid’s head and forced him—or her—into making crazy decisions. But that didn’t explain why she’d killed an old man, her second husband, or her kids. Just for insurance payouts?
“If you’re telling the truth,Ms. Smart” —Ev added enough sarcasm to that title to choke a horse—“and if someone really did blow up your house to flush you out… and if you’re not Tuesday Bremmer and are innocent of killing whoever was in your house tonight…”
Ms. Smart stumbled, then stopped walking altogether. “Someone was in my house? They’re d-dead?”
Shane had to give her credit. Bremmer was believable. She had that surprised but innocent routine down pat.
“Yup, saw the charred body with my own eyes. Looked like you bagged another male, judging by how tall it was.” Everlee kept dishing out the bad cop routine.
“But I… I told you. I haven’t killed anyone. I didn’t do any of it. I… I…”
“Yup, that’s what they all say.”
Shane jumped in with, “If you know who did, give us a name so we can help you.”
Before Ms. Smart could answer, Ev ordered, “Later. Let’s walk a little faster, people. Oh, look. A dark alley. We’re taking it. You still got your phone, Shane?”
He slapped a hand over his rear pocket. “I do.”
“Good. Call us a cab. If they can’t get here in five minutes, call an Uber. We need to be gone before the police start looking for us. We’ll talk more later.”
“You are going to tell me what’s going on, right?” he asked, his fingertip already on his Google Search app.
“Safe house, Shane. Alex said take Ms. Brem, oops, I mean,Ms. Smart”—heavy on the sarcasm—“some place where no one can find her. He’s got a safe house nearby. Let’s wait until then to ask more questions.”
“Copy that,” he replied. Shane had their next ride ordered in seconds, and the cab pulled up within the allotted time. Once they climbed in, Everlee directed the female driver to take them to the nearest convenience store, which ended up being less than five blocks due east of what was left of Smart’s, aka Bremmer’s, home. Once in the parking lot, they all climbed out, and Shane took his jeans with him.
Ev paid the cabbie, and as soon as the car was out of sight, she told him, “Now get us an Uber. We want someone here pronto.”
He nodded like the good troop he was. While Shane tapped their location into the Uber app, then waited outside with Ms. Smart for their ride, Ev ran into the store and came back out with two bags. “Kill your phone, Shane. You too,Ms. Smart,” she ordered, dropping hers to the asphalt parking lot and stomping her boot heel onto it, grinding it to pieces.
“Why can’t you guys just call me Tuesday?” Ms. Smart whined.
“Because you’re not our friend,” Shane said clearly. “You’re our prisoner, and we don’t call wanted criminals by their first names.”
“And this isn’t a game,” Everlee bit out as she handed a plastic-encased cell phone to Shane. “I’ve got two burners, one for me, one for you. Wait a sec, I bought something that’ll cut through all that plastic security shit.” She stuck her hand into the bag and pulled up a retractable utility knife. “Here. Use this. We’ll get a couple more burners once we’re at the safe house.”
Everlee didn’t give Ms. Smart a phone, but she did use the knife to remove the flex cuffs behind her back. After she shook her hands and scrubbed both hands up her biceps, Ms. Smart complied without argument, probably because of the pistol once again in Everlee’s right hand.
She tugged a cell phone in a rhinestone-crusted case out of her trench coat pocket and dropped it on the ground. When she did, her long hair fell over her face like a tumbling waterfall of darker browns and golden blondes. Shane couldn’t help but notice. Who could miss the way the parking lot lights caught that ultra-feminine move? Tuesday was a slender, good-looking woman, and all that hair looked sleek, soft, and touchable. It was no wonder she attracted husbands as quickly as she had. Ms. Smart was walking, talking, maybe stalking, sex on two long legs. Tempting.
Shane shook off the tender feelings for the woman growing in the back of his mind. He had to remember that she was nothing more than a killer. A pretty predator, but, in her case, with the evidence stacked against her, guilty until proven innocent. He’d seen the security footage. Shehadlocked her husband and children inside a burning apartment. She had walked away while her kids cried for their mama. That alone was damned heartrending proof. Didn’t matter how she looked. She couldn’t be anything but guilty. Yeah, she might get off on a technicality—heaven forbid—but right here and now, he was the long arm of the FBI law, and he’d take her down by whatever means were necessary.
She seemed calmer since they’d left her burning home behind. But she was so damned small, almost fragile, more like a frightened rabbit caught in a snare, than a conniving black widow spider who spun webs of lies to catch gullible men.
Which he was not. Shane didn’t trust Bremmer, err, Tuesday Smart, just because she was easy on the eyes and seemed so much younger than her twenty-five years. For all he knew, she could’ve been one of those nasty mean girls all high schools groomed to take over the world. Personality traits like that didn’t just vanish overnight.
He’d seen the innocent, femme fatale act before, and that day still gave him nightmares. The black widow then had been a pretty, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in a blue burka, holding what Shane now knew had been a two-year-old little girl on her hip. A child who never would’ve lived to see her third birthday if Shane hadn’t been in the same busy Afghanistan hotel lobby. All because her radicalized mother was wearing enough Semtex underneath that burka to blow herself, her daughter, and half the hotel to kingdom come. It was where American contractors often stayed. She’d been sent to kill as many of them as she could.