No Safe Place. Sherri Shackelford

she kept them at the ready when exiting a parking garage. Corbin’s unexpected appearance upstairs had distracted her.

      As she fumbled with her purse, she dropped the bag. “Calm down, Beth.”

      She took a deep, relaxing breath. Everything was fine. She was overreacting. No one knew anything, least of all Corbin. Whatever suspicions he may have, she’d done nothing to confirm them. Not yet. She scooped up her purse and stepped back. Glass crunched beneath her feet.

      The hairs on the nape of her neck stirred, and she tipped back her head. The security camera hung from a single electrical wire. The glass lens was shattered.

      A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

      Corbin raced down the stairs, the soles of his shoes squeaking over the tile surface.

      He should be able to catch her. Petite and classily beautiful, Beth Greenwood’s daily uniform consisted of a pencil skirt and blouse, her blond hair in a neat bun, and a sensible pair of pumps to complete the look. Not the best outfit for a speedy getaway.

      Until now, her reputation had been impeccable, rendering his evidence circumstantial at best, but the coincidences were adding up. Her name had come up twice in connection to a fraudulent account. The first time she’d appeared on his radar, she’d switched jobs right in the middle of his investigation, and the trail had gone cold. She’d resurfaced yet again when she’d inquired about an offshore account he’d flagged for suspicious activity. Now it appeared as though she was going to perform another disappearing act before he could gather further evidence of her involvement.

      Working on a hunch, he’d had her followed. Last week she’d deviated from her regular routine. She’d been seen with two men in a part of town known on the nightly news for drug deals gone bad. The pair of men she’d met in the seedy bar were known in the criminal underworld for helping people disappear. While Corbin couldn’t prove she’d done anything but order a soda water, that meeting was too big a coincidence for a man who didn’t believe in happenstance.

      The train ticket protruding from her bag when she’d tripped over the trash bin had confirmed his suspicions. He’d tucked the revealing evidence deeper into the pocket before she’d noticed, but not before he’d memorized her departure. Tomorrow. 5:45 a.m. One way.

      The accountant was running. Innocent people didn’t run. She’d been his first suspect since her name had come up in the previous audit. Didn’t help that she’d spent the past week behaving like a textbook example of a guilty person. She was edgy and jumpy—rarely leaving her desk—even for meals. She didn’t want anyone messing with her computer. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing. Innocent people had nothing to hide.

       Strike one.

      Corbin pushed open the door to the garage, and his blood froze.

      A man had his arm clamped around Beth’s waist, the other hand covering her mouth.

      His adrenaline surged. She kicked and clawed. Her heels scuffed along the cement, and one of her shoes tumbled free. A car idled opposite the exit, a shadowy figure in the driver’s seat, presumably the getaway vehicle. Ducking behind a pillar, Corbin rapidly scanned the garage. He’d backed his nondescript sedan into the spot opposite Beth’s. The proximity was purposeful. If she was planning on disappearing, he wanted to know. He crouched and crossed the distance, then fished out his key fob and hit the button twice, remotely starting his car.

      The man holding Beth spun toward the noise. The next instant he yelped and stumbled backward, clutching his face.

      Beth held her arm extended, a canister of pepper spray in her outstretched hand. Writhing in pain, the man lurched away from her assault. He groped blindly in the direction of his waiting vehicle. Corbin dove into his car and slammed the transmission into First. He roared out of the space, positioning the passenger side before Beth.

      Her face pale, she glanced up from her crouched position.

      He leaned over the console and pushed open the door. “Get in!”

      She scooped up her purse, her frightened gaze swinging between him and her car.

      The pepper-sprayed man had reached the getaway vehicle. Still blinded, he fumbled with the handle.

      Beth shook her head. “No.”

      “Get in!” he ordered. “There’s no time.”

      A bullet ricocheted off the hood.

      The getaway driver had a gun. The noise propelled her forward. She leaped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Another bullet shattered the windshield of her car. Beth threw her arms over her face and crouched behind the dash.

      Corbin shifted into Reverse and braced his hand on the back of the passenger seat. Looking over his shoulder, he sped down the garage ramp in reverse. When they reached the next level, he spun the wheel. The tires squealed and smoked, circling the car forward.

      “Put on your seat belt,” he ordered gruffly.

      Her fingers fumbling, Beth complied. The parking-garage gate was open, and he raced through the exit. He didn’t live in the city, but he’d gotten to know the layout over the past two weeks.

      Glancing at the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the car following them. “Hang on. This might get bumpy.”

      He couldn’t get a good look at the men driving. Average height and build. Sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. One of them was wearing a dark ball cap with lighter lettering. He squinted into the rearview mirror. Maybe a Bears hat. It was too difficult to discern.

      The sky was overcast, creating an early twilight. He wove through the Friday afternoon traffic and turned on to a side street packed with orange cones and graded for resurfacing. He only needed a few twists and turns. The men following them were liable to give up easily. Traffic was heavy, and there were too many witnesses. A Friday evening in downtown Chicago meant extra police patrolling the tipsy happy-hour crowds.

      He took a corner and then another. Cars filled in behind them, and he drove toward the freeway ramp. Soon they were caught in the rush of traffic. Concentrating on the road and keeping a watch for a tail kept his attention focused. Beth remained silent; her hands braced against the dash. He raised an eyebrow. Though she had her phone, she hadn’t dialed the police. A cop’s daughter who didn’t call the police after an attack.

       Strike two.

      Once he was confident the men following them had given up, he exited the freeway and drove toward a park near his rented house. The lot was empty save for a single vehicle. A young couple played Frisbee in the distance, oblivious to the darkening sky.

      He turned toward Beth and came face-to-face with her container of pepper spray.

      Lifting his hands, he said, “Easy there. Don’t shoot.”

      He’d been pepper-sprayed in the army, and he’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

      “Who are you?” she demanded.

      “Corbin Ross. You might remember me from the finance meeting this morning. The one with the stale donuts and the endless PowerPoint.”

      His joke lifted one edge of her mouth.

      “Sam must have had over a hundred slides,” she said.

      “And half of them were charts.”

      Her blond hair had come loose from the severe bun she wore at the nape of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder in a gilded wave. Though her hands shook, she stared him down with a steely determination in her leaf-green eyes. Her words were light, but her intentions were deadly serious. His heartbeat kicked. This wasn’t personal. This was business. The first rule of undercover work was never get involved with your subject. Fraternizing with a suspect was a surefire path to the unemployment line.

      The container wavered. “Take me back to my car.”

      “I don’t think