Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(89)

“Have a little mercy, Private Mullins,” Mal said to the closest guard. “Gimme the last room on the left.”


“That’s not a cell.”

“There’s a real bed in it. You and I both know I could be here a long time.”

“This one, right here.” The other man, an Army National Guardsman whose badge said Harcourt, pulled out a key to one of the holding cells.

Mal eyed him. “California or Texas Guard, Corporal?” he asked.

The man ignored him and unlocked the door.

“I was with Maryland Reserves,” Mal said. At least that had been his cover when the CIA sent him here.

The guard turned to him. “You’re a f*cking thief, Harris. Not a soldier. This is where you belong for what you did.”

But the other guard, Mullins, moved closer, obviously intrigued. “You’re the embezzler?” Mullins asked. “I’ve heard about you.”

“I did my time in a cell for that crime,” he said.

The guardsman looked disgusted and backed away. “I’m going to do the paperwork. Lock him in here.” He gave the key to Mullins. “And don’t leave this hall, Private.”

When his footsteps faded, Mullins nodded toward the open door, a wretched stench already wafting out. The cell was less than six by six, with a wooden box the only thing to sit on.

“C’mon, Private,” Mal said. “That key works in the last room, and you know as well as I do Corporal Harcourt is going to sit in his office and jack off until he’s off duty. He left you with the shit job.”

Mullins sniffed and turned his head, the ancient smells of a room where men were held for days with no bathroom still offensive. “No way,” Mullins said. “I’m not going to stand out here and suck in that shit.”

Mal’s spark of hope turned into a full-blown bonfire.

Mullins let him into the Country Club and gave a dry laugh when he looked inside. “Bed’s gone, Mr. Harris,” he noted, tapping a hideous overhead light. Air conditioning likely hadn’t been run since the project closed, leaving a different kind of fetid, moldy stench.

The bed was, indeed, long gone. All that was left in the room were two beat-up leather sofas, a table, and benches along the wall, with wooden tops that lifted for storage.

Storage for secret notes exchanged by an agent and a translator. Storage for porn they gave to the detainees. And, God willing, storage for a Beretta Nano.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” Mal went in, pretending not to be in any rush.

“I’ll be out here,” Mullins said. “Pound on the door if you need to piss.”

He left Mal alone, the thick metal door blocking out any sound of the private’s footsteps. Which meant he couldn’t hear Mal, either. Not that what he was hoping to do would make any sound.

Without hesitation, Mal walked to the wood slats that covered the benches, going to the spot at the end where he remembered Gabe leaving or retrieving notes for his lover.

Mal put his hand on the last wooden slat and tried to lift it. Nailed shut. Damn it. He yanked again, and again, ignoring the pain in his arm, determined to tear the wood off.

His fingers bled as he worked, sweat streaming and heart pounding, but he finally cracked a slat open enough that he was able to stick his hand in the hole and get a little more leverage. He couldn’t get his right arm all the way down without excruciating pain, so he tried his left, biting his lip with the effort.

It had to be there. Had to be. Finally, he bent over and stuck his arm deep in the hidey-hole they’d made, and his fingers grazed…paper.

Not the pistol they’d put there.

He tugged at the slip of paper and pulled it out with two fingers, swearing under his breath. There was something written on the tiny page, probably “suck it, dickhead, I took your gun” in Arabic.

But the words were in English, in a woman’s handwriting.

Gabriel, my angel…

He closed his eyes. Guess Gabe missed one. He stuffed it in his pocket, more determined than ever to get home and hand that letter to Gabe.

He shoved his right hand into the hole again, grunting as the jagged wood stabbed his wounded arm and drew more blood. Just as he was about to give up, he heard the lock of his door unlatch—

And his fingers touched the barrel of the gun.

He pushed all the way in and managed to grab the gun, tugging it out and getting it behind his back just as the private walked in.

He stared at Mal and the broken wood.

“We hid porn in there,” Mal said coolly. “Figured I might as well pass the time.”

Mullins gave him a strange look, but he didn’t make any effort to go for his own weapon.

“I’m getting coffee,” he said. “You want some?”

Such a nice kid. But probably not nice enough to help him, so Mal would have to make his night duty hell.


“Listen, Private Mullins.” Mal walked closer, the pistol in his right hand behind him, but he covered by holding the other hand over his bullet wound. “I really need to see medical.”

“I can’t take you—”

Mal whipped the gun around and slammed the barrel against the kid’s neck, instantly getting his arm and twisting it. He fought, but Mal had adrenaline and determination and years of experience in this kid’s shoes on his side. Mal flipped him around in a flash.