Moving Target by Cheyenne McCray Page A

in the hell do we do from here?"
    "Head straight to the National Guard in Phoenix." Jameson had a frustrated tone to his voice. "They'll have a plane ready to get your asses to New York."
    Daniel snapped the phone shut and looked to Atkins. "I need a vehicle."
    "You've got it."
    Fifteen minutes later, Daniel had moved all his equipment into a black Ford Explorer and Ani was ushered into the SUV.
    When he was ready to put it into drive he glanced at her. She looked absolutely miserable.

    "Are you okay, honey?" he said.
    "All this is my fault." She balled her fist on her thigh. "I really screwed up."
    She had, but Daniel didn't blame her. Instead, he found himself wishing he could kiss the wrinkles from her forehead and the frustration from her lips. His gut clenched. He had to stop thinking that way about her. If he turned her over to another Inspector . . .
    She'd be taken to Phoenix—
    The skin at the back of his neck prickled. If Borenko was calling the shots, the Russians would be waiting exactly for that.
    There were only two ways to get to Phoenix from Tucson. The drive through Florence would be suicide. Backcountry highway with long stretches of nothing.
    Highway I-10 was a possibility, but the long arms of Borenko would likely reach to every possible airport, including the National Guard's. No doubt whatsoever in his mind—they'd be waiting in ambush. That was why the Borenkos had called in the terrorist threats.
    He'd bet a year's salary that what they wouldn't expect was for Daniel and Ani to head through Albuquerque or El Paso.
    Both were around six-plus hours away, with El Paso having a good hundred thousand more residents than Albuquerque.
    "Everything will turn out fine," Daniel said as he put the Explorer into gear. "Just hang in there and we'll make it."
    A look of determination crossed her features. "More than anything, I want to put away the man who killed Mom, Dad, and Jenn."
    At the mention of Ani's sister's name, Daniel's jaw tensed. He'd always hated the fact he hadn't been allowed to tell her . .
    . Should he tell Ani now?
    Fuck. Not possible. It would put his job on the line and possibly put Ani in more danger. After the trial—then he could tell her before she went back into the program.
    He drove the SUV out of the lot.
    "Aren't we taking I-10 to Phoenix?" she asked as she glanced at him.
    "We're taking I-10," he said, "but we're heading east to El Paso."
    When she stared at him, he added, "I think it will be safer this way."
    She nodded. "The Russians won't expect that, will they," she said as a statement, not as a question.
    Daniel guided the Explorer through traffic and headed for the freeway. "That's what I'm counting on."

    It was almost seven at night when they reached El Paso. Daniel was beat, and his back ached between his shoulder blades where his vest had taken a bullet.
    Ani looked like she felt as exhausted as he was even though she had dozed off several times on the way. The scratch on her cheek that she'd gotten from broken glass during the shooting was dark against her fair skin.
    The entire time he drove toward El Paso, Daniel kept glancing at that scratch.
    He couldn't allow another person in his care to die. One mistake was all it had taken back in D.C. to get Judge Moore dead.
    The judge had been receiving death threats and the Marshals Service took threats to judiciary officials more than seriously.
    Daniel had been assigned to guard Judge Moore within the courtroom and had kept constant surveillance on those assembled inside, and he thought, at the time, that he was doing a damned good job.
    But he didn't see it coming.
    That one mistake.
    Heat burned in Daniel's gut at the memory. Somehow the killer had procured a visitor's pass and had a functioning plastic gun strapped to his ankle. And he'd had someone on the inside who smuggled in a couple of bullets.
    That was all the sonofabitch had needed.
    Daniel clenched his hands around the steering wheel.
    After declaring a recess,