Deadly Allure. Elle James

with the Acme Cleaning Services’ staff and left through the rear dock entrance. Once she cleared the building, she broke off from the rest, ducked behind a large trash container and waited until the others moved far enough away that they wouldn’t notice when she headed the opposite direction.

      A block away, she’d stashed a motorcycle behind a stack of empty pallets. Stripping out of the coveralls, she tossed them to the side, climbed on the motorcycle and drove away.

      Three fire engines and a ladder truck passed her on their way toward Ryan Technologies.

      Nicole kept going all the way out of the city, past the high-rises and big business of L.A., the six-lane freeways less crowded now than during the daytime. Eventually she passed through the suburbs, continuing north to Santa Clarita where she would rendezvous with the SOS plane and settle back for the long flight to D.C.

      As she neared the small airport, a police car pulled in behind her, lights flashing. A cold feeling washed over her. She hadn’t been speeding and she’d followed all the rules of the highway, determined to fly under the radar of local police. No one but the folks at SOS knew where she’d go after the heist at Ryan Technologies.

      Slowing, she debated pulling over and going through the motions of a routine traffic stop, but instinct told her, as late as it was, and after breaking and entering a building in L.A., there was nothing routine about this stop.

      As she neared the turn to the airport, she noted at least a half dozen police cars, lights strobing the night sky. Nicole revved the engine and peeled out, taking the motorcycle across a median, down into a ditch and onto another road that would lead her out of town. As soon as she lost the police car, she pulled around to the back of a deserted storage building, heart racing and dread filling her gut like poison.

      She fished out her cell phone and dialed Royce Fontaine’s number. It rang five times before voice mail picked up.

      Nicole frowned. Fontaine should have picked up on the first ring. Hell, he was expecting her report as soon as she reached the airport. He wouldn’t have deserted her when they stood a chance of nailing Ryan.

      She dialed Geek, who should have been in the computer lab following her every move via the GPS. Again, no answer.

      Sirens blared on the road behind her. Three police cars converged on her from two different directions. She gunned the engine, hopped over a sidewalk and sped down a quiet residential street to burst out on the main road. How had they found her so soon?

      For a moment she thought she’d shaken them. Then at the end of the alley another police car appeared. It was as if they knew where she’d be before she got there, as if they were tracking her.

      Nicole left the road, drove down a steep embankment and up to the other side, crossed a wide-open field and headed into a wooded area. She didn’t slow until she was completely surrounded by trees.

      As close as the police had come, they had to be tracking her. Nicole stopped long enough to ditch her cell phone, the only tracking device she had on her. Somehow her position had been compromised. With Fontaine and Geek offline, the entire operation could have been compromised. Her best bet was to get as far away from L.A. and her cell phone as possible and lay low until things died down and she could contact her boss.

      She knew of only one place far enough off the grid she could hide where she could keep in contact with other members of the close-knit SOS team.

      Having ditched her cell phone, she drove out of Santa Clarita and headed north toward Oregon and Cape Churn. The legendary Devil’s Shroud that could hide the rocks jutting out of the ocean from view of passing ships would be a great place to disappear to until she could decrypt the data she’d stolen from Ryan Technologies. Now all she had to do was to survive the more than nine-hundred-mile trip and avoid all members of the law-enforcement community.

Chapter 2

      Dave Logsdon slowed for a four-way stop. The fog had drifted in off the sea, blanketing the shoreline, homes and roads of Cape Churn, discouraging the residents from getting out. They called it the Devil’s Shroud. When it settled over the town, everyone hunkered down and waited until it cleared. Only the naive or desperate went out on nights such as this.

      Unfortunately, Dave had been in Portland to purchase additional supplies for the old yacht he’d been refurbishing. He rarely took a day off from his fishing and dive boat business until the end of the summer season when business slacked off. Today had been the first day in a month he hadn’t had a booking. If he hadn’t had to wait in line for the guy behind the paint counter to get to him, he’d have been back at least an hour earlier, before the fog settled in over the coast. Instead he’d been stuck in Portland rush hour, behind thousands of other motorists trying to get home from their day jobs.

      No sooner had he crossed the mountains, he’d run into the first signs of fog formed by warm air over the cool Pacific Ocean, the resulting formation of ground-hugging clouds pushed inland by a slight breeze.

      About the time he pulled into the intersection, he received a text from Sal and Olie. The marina owners asked him to pick up a loaf of bread on his way through town.

      He smiled and increased his speed, his thoughts on the only grocery in Cape Churn, hoping it was still open. He didn’t mind stopping for the Olanders. They were a nice, older husband and wife who’d taken him in as though he was the son they’d never had. He got a chuckle out of their nicknames. Olie, he understood, was short for Olaf. But how you got Sal out of Gladys was a mystery. But they loved each other and were very special to him.

      Out of the corner of his eye, something moved in the mist. The next thing he knew a speeding motorcyclist burst through the fog, turned sharply in an attempt to avoid hitting him, slammed into the truck and lost control.

      Dave hit his brakes.

      The motorcycle slid in front of the truck and the rider tumbled into the ditch.

      Dave shoved the shift into Park and left the truck in the middle of the intersection, hoping to keep other traffic from running over the cycle or the rider. He dropped down and ran to the ditch.

      A black-clad body lay facedown, groaning in his helmet.

      “Hey, buddy, are you all right?” Dave asked, kneeling and touching a hand to his shoulder.

      In a flash of movement the biker rolled onto his back, grabbed Dave’s wrist, planted a foot in his chest and launched him into the air.

      Performing a perfect head over heels, Dave landed flat on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.

      The helmeted rider stood over him, a lipstick tube held out in front of him.

      “What the hell?” Dave tried to get up, but the cyclist planted a booted foot on top of his gut.

      Anger surged and, with it, all the combat training he’d acquired while serving in the Army Special Forces.

      His arm shot out, grabbed the ankle of his leather-clad attacker and yanked him off his feet.

      He landed beside Dave on his back, the helmet bouncing off the dirt.

      Dave rolled over and pinned the rider to the ground, arms trapped at his sides. “I should have left you in the ditch,” he grumbled.

      “Then why didn’t you?”

      The voice coming from behind the helmet’s face shield didn’t sound much like a man’s voice, though he was tall and slight. “Damn.”

      With his knees clamping his assailant’s arms against his body, Dave unbuckled the helmet and shoved it up and off.

      Long, straight, silky blond hair spilled out onto the ground and angry blue eyes flashed up at him, sparkling in the beam from his truck’s headlights. He’d been bested by a woman. His buddies back on active duty would have gotten a good laugh out of that.

      Dave glared down at her, recognizing something familiar about her, something to do with