Cut and Run (21 page)

“It’s better if you don’t know who the others are. It’s safer for all of you,” Sheppard had said when Scott had pressed him for more information. However, Scott had been given a list of their codenames—Fox, Ranger, Zephyr, and the like—to help with identifying his fellow Phoenix in a time of crisis, though he couldn’t put any names or faces to the codenames. After memorizing the list, Scott had destroyed it and heeded his father’s warning. “Never reveal your codename unless you find yourself in a life or death situation.”

In the living room, Scott reached for the remote and switched on the TV, setting the volume to low in order not to wake Phoebe. It was barely past five o’clock, and neither of them had gotten much sleep. Scott had found Phoebe more than just a little tempting and made love to her a third time, waking her shortly past two o’clock after she’d fallen asleep for a while. Luckily she hadn’t been upset at all about Scott robbing her of her sleep, and had been more than welcoming when he’d thrust into her as he’d spooned her. In fact, she seemed to enjoy herself even more that third time, confessing that she loved to be woken like that.

Scott smiled to himself. He’d have to remember that fact for the future. He suddenly stopped himself, shaking his head. Such thoughts were futile. He couldn’t carry on with Phoebe. A relationship was out of the question. He was still on the run, still hiding from his enemies, and there was no place in his life for a woman. It wouldn’t be fair to her. Besides, for all he knew, her motive for being with him was to get her story. He had no reason to believe she even liked him, though he had to admit that sexually they were a hundred percent compatible.

Scott glanced at the TV, the announcer’s last words having drawn his attention. The photo of a middle-aged white man was displayed in the top left corner of the screen, while the announcer spoke.

“Following a tip from a relative, Martin Lee Warren, the bus driver who abandoned a school bus on a railroad crossing in Brookfield, Cook County, yesterday afternoon, was apprehended by Chicago police in the early hours of the morning. He did not resist arrest, but police sources told us he was spouting anti-American propaganda. Sources close to the investigation confirm that Mr. Warren has a history of mental illness.”

Scott scoffed. “Sicko!” These days mental illness seemed to be a blanket excuse for committing any crime in the book.

He was about to switch the channel when the picture of the bus driver was exchanged for another picture, this one not a posed photo like the one of the driver, but one taken on the fly.

He suppressed a curse. Though the picture was only showing about three quarters of Scott’s face, he was definitely recognizable.

“One man has emerged as the hero of this tragedy, which could have resulted in as many as twenty-seven deaths, twenty-six of which were schoolchildren aged eleven,” the announcer continued. “One of the rescued children shot this photo of the rescuer who seemed to come out of nowhere. According to Debbie Finch from WYAT News, the first news team on the scene, this man left the scene of the accident before the police could question him. While he is not suspected of any involvement in the crime, he’s a person of interest who may be able to shed light on the events of yesterday. Anybody with information about this man—”

Scott switched off the TV. He’d heard enough. Though he’d been right that the news team hadn’t caught him on their camera, one of the kids had and had promptly sent the picture to the press.

This changed everything. Once his enemies—the people who’d killed his father and destroyed the Phoenix program—saw this picture, they would find him. Hell, Phoebe had found him, and she had far fewer resources at her disposal than the people who were after him. It would take them only a few hours to track him down. And kill him.

He had to leave now if he wanted to live.

~ ~ ~

He pressed the pause button, freezing the picture on the TV screen. The man whose face was currently staring at him from the screen was the hero who’d saved the twenty-six kids and the teacher.

There was something he didn’t like about the scenario. How often did it happen that a hero emerged at the eleventh hour to save the day? He grunted to himself and wiped his face with a towel, then tossed it back over the handrail of the treadmill and stopped the machine.

He could sense that the man whose face was frozen on the TV had had prior knowledge about the impending disaster. From the reports he’d seen earlier, the interview with the children this man had saved, he’d had the impression that the man who’d arrived on a motorcycle had acted very deliberately, knowing exactly what to do.

And now that he saw the picture, he knew with certainty that his hunch was correct. The man looked familiar, and he realized now where he’d seen him before.

He stepped off the treadmill and marched up the stairs to his home office. His computer was already on. He logged in, navigated to the file he kept on his desktop for easy access and opened it. He didn’t have to scroll long until he found what he was looking for.

The man in the picture was a little younger, but it was clearly the same one as on the TV. Beneath it, his information was displayed.

Name: Scott Thompson

Codename: Ace

Notes:
First to enter the Phoenix program. Adoptive son of Henry Sheppard, director and founder of the Phoenix program.

Special skills: Premonitions/ESP

Status: Program terminated

Current location: Unknown

Not anymore. He grinned and saw his own face reflected in the monitor.

“Gotcha.”

11

Music drifted to her ears. Phoebe stirred, her entire body aching pleasantly from the activities of the previous night. Scott had been more than she’d expected. She felt a little pang of guilt emerge, because she’d planned on using her female wiles to get him to tell her his story. But the moment he’d kissed her she’d forgotten all about the story and why she’d looked for him. Suddenly nothing had mattered other than the pleasure they could give each other. In the end she hadn’t slept with him to get his story, but because she felt drawn to him like a moth to the light.

She’d never met a man with such magnetic sex appeal, and despite the fact that she knew nothing about him other than that he was possibly hiding from something or someone, she had thrown caution to the wind and let herself go in his arms. The reward had been well worth it—many times well worth it.

She sighed contentedly and rolled over, her hand already reaching for him. With a start she sat up. Scott wasn’t in bed anymore.

She listened for any sounds in the apartment, but heard nothing except the radio on the bedside table. Curious, she got out of bed and snatched a T-shirt that lay on a chair. It was long enough to cover her to mid-thigh, and it smelled of Scott.

Barefoot, she walked into the living room. “Scott?”

But there was no response. Only silence. He wasn’t in the living room, nor in the attached open plan kitchen. The door to the bathroom was open, and it was empty too.

Had he gone to buy breakfast and bring it back? She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was milk and a container of ground coffee. Other than that it was empty. The cupboards didn’t yield much more either: some crackers and jam. Nothing fresh to speak of. She’d seen more food in a vacation rental than in Scott’s kitchen. Almost as if he didn’t really live here.

Phoebe marched back into the living room and glanced around. She hadn’t really had a chance to take a look the night before, but now she noticed it immediately: the place was barely decorated. There were no personal effects, no pictures on the walls, no books on the built-in bookshelves. Just a stack of newspapers and flyers from the local supermarket.

The furniture was secondhand and didn’t match: a sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table. She noticed a white piece of paper on the table. When she approached, she realized that somebody had written a few lines on it.

I’m sorry. You wouldn’t understand. Please don’t look for me.

It wasn’t signed.

She didn’t have to be a detective to figure out who’d written the note and that it was meant for her. Scott had just ditched her, fled his own apartment and dumped her.

“Bastard!” she cursed.

You wouldn’t understand.
Yeah, right! A typical male excuse. How dare he treat her like that? Why had he even asked her to stay the night, then? Just so he could screw her twice more, until he’d had his fill? Damn it, he’d even woken her in the middle of the night, his cock already thrusting into her, and she hadn’t protested. No, she’d found it exciting. What an easy lay she’d been! Stupid!

She ran back into the bedroom and peered out the window. The motorcycle was gone. Figured. A more thorough search of his apartment revealed that he’d left nothing worth coming back for. She couldn’t even find a single piece of mail with his name on it. Instead she found a shredder and a bag with shredded paper. Since she hadn’t heard him use the shredder during the night, she had to assume he made it a habit to shred every piece of mail as soon as he’d read it. Who did that? Such action appeared downright paranoid. And it made her more than just curious. It made her suspicious. What did Scott have to hide? Not even a guy trying to avoid making child support payments did that. No, Scott had to be involved in something more nefarious. And she would find out what it was.

The reporter in her couldn’t just walk away. But it was the spurned lover in her who made the final decision: she needed to know why he’d left after the amazing night they’d spent in each other’s arms.

Phoebe grabbed her phone and dialed a number. The call was answered on the second ring.

“Hey, doll! What’s up?” chirped the cheerful voice of Andrew, her go-to guy for electronics.

“Oh thank God you’re up already.”

“Already? Doll, I haven’t been to bed yet. So, what’s cooking?”

“Remember that tracker chip you gave me a few months ago when I was trying to get the scoop on that politician?”

“Sure, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I hope. Does it still work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I put it on somebody’s motorbike yesterday. And I need to find out where that bike is heading.”

“Sure, it’s gonna work. Let me just log in.” There was a short pause. “Okay, got it, but it’s still moving, heading southwest on Highway 6.”

“Can you somehow keep me up to date on where it’s going?”

“Yeah, but that’ll take me about fifteen minutes. I’m gonna have to set up a live update for you. Do you want me to send it to your cell?”

“Can you do that?”

“I can do anything, doll,” he said confidently.

“You’re the best! Fifteen minutes?”

“Give or take. I’ll send you a link to an app you’ll need to install, and as soon as I’m done programming it, it’ll ping and you’ll get live updates every thirty seconds. It’s almost as good as a live feed.”

“Thanks, Andrew! I owe you one.”

“By my count, that’s more than one so far. But who’s keeping track?”

Phoebe chuckled. “You are, I’m sure. Talk soon.” She disconnected the call and charged into the bathroom. She would have just enough time to shower and get dressed before she could head out and follow Scott.

She wouldn’t be a journalist if she didn’t try to get to the bottom of this. Something stank to high heaven, and she would find out what it was. And not just because she needed a good story to keep Eriksson from firing her. Now it was personal. Nobody ditched Phoebe Chadwick as unceremoniously as Scott had done and got away unscathed.

A little voice in her head piped up.
You wouldn’t be doing this if he were ugly and bad in bed. Admit it—you’ve got the hots for him and want more.

“Ridiculous!”

12

Scott had driven over five hours with barely any breaks, having filled his tank once at a small gas station which didn’t appear to have any security cameras mounted. Just to be sure, he’d stopped his motorcycle at an angle from which the gas station attendant couldn’t read his license plate. He’d paid cash. He never paid by credit card. In fact, he’d ditched all his cards from his former life, and when there was need for a credit card, he purchased a pre-paid card in a supermarket and paid cash. Cash was king to a man on the run.

He’d stayed off the freeways, preferring the smaller highways and country roads with less traffic and less chance of running into the highway patrol. Though he’d changed the license plate of his motorcycle the moment he’d returned from the train collision, he hadn’t yet had a chance to repaint the bike. He should have known better and spent the night at Al’s shop, letting himself in with his spare key, rather than screw Phoebe as if he could afford the luxury of such a distraction. Now he was paying for having indulged in the pleasure of spending the night in Phoebe’s arms.

He couldn’t change it now. And a part of him didn’t want to change anything about the previous night. He recalled the words of one of his instructors at The Farm, where he’d spent countless months training for the CIA.

“Acknowledge your mistakes and move on. Dwelling on them will only lead to more mistakes,” he’d said more than just once. “Instead, examine what you did and see if there’s any advantage you can glean from it.”

Scott involuntarily smiled. The advantage of having spent the night with Phoebe was that he felt content for the first time in three years. Sated, satisfied, whole. While he knew this feeling would vanish soon, he appreciated the energy he’d garnered from it. As if he’d filled his tank just like he’d filled the tank of his Ducati.

He knew he would never see Phoebe again, but he also knew it was for the best. He couldn’t drag her into this. Danger followed him everywhere he went, and while he was trained for this, Phoebe wasn’t.

Maybe in another life they could have had more than just one night, but he only had this life to live and he wasn’t going to do anything to endanger her or himself. He’d promised his father to continue what he’d started. Maybe not under the protection of the American government, but there had to be other ways to fulfill his destiny and use his gift to protect those who needed him.