True Shot (6 page)

“Shut up,” she hissed over her shoulder.

A small smile twisted Flinn’s lips. “He seems like more than a friend.”

“He’s no one. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“It’s not that easy. If you’ve compromised us—”

“I haven’t. You know me, Flinn.”

“And you know me, yet a minute ago you accused me of having Zoe killed.”

“I misspoke. I . . . I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

As if to prove it, she leaned more heavily against Mac, though he worried that wasn’t part of the act. Or perhaps she was trying to tell him something?

“Let’s do this easy, Samantha,” Flinn said, cool-as-you-please. “No need for drama. Deke and Tom here are going to pat you both down. Then we’ll take a drive back to the District and get that shoulder taken care of. After that, we’ll sit down and have a nice, calm talk. Does that sound agreeable?”

Mac’s stomach twisted with dread. Agreeable, my ass. At some point during all that nice, calm bullshit, they’d both end up with bullets in the head. That’s why Samantha had said he was no one. She was trying to protect him. Well, he wasn’t some sissy man who needed protection, damn it.

Tightening his hands at her waist, he pressed up against her until the gun in his waistband dug into her back. That’s a gun in my pocket, baby, though I am also very happy to see you.

Flinn arched a questioning brow. “Samantha?”

“Actually,” Mac said, stepping abruptly around her and turning his back on Dr. Evil to face her. “You know, great as this has been and all, I’m going to just . . . you know . . . take off now.”

She stared up at him in shock, her steel-blue eyes screaming
what the hell are you doing
? But when he eased the tail of his T-shirt up with one hand, his movements as minimal as possible, her attention shifted down.

“Call me sometime, okay?” he added. “After the sugar daddy here gets over himself.”

A rocket launcher poked into his back, and his gaze locked on hers. She really did have arrestingly beautiful eyes. For a commando.

“You’re insane,” she said through her teeth, but she grabbed the gun from his waistband, shoved him sideways with surprising strength and fired twice in quick succession.

Mac watched from the floor in stunned fascination as both Deke and Tom toppled, tidy bullet holes in the center of their foreheads.

She hesitated when it came to the smarmy Flinn, however. “What did you do to me?” Her voice shook as much as her hand, her finger flexing on the trigger, but her expression was cold and hard.

“I saved you,” Flinn said. “When you most needed someone on your side, I was there for you. N3 is your family, Samantha. And family doesn’t point guns at each other.”

Mac stifled his snort of disbelief. Guess that rule didn’t extend to the thugs.

“Did you do to me what you did to Zoe?” Samantha asked.

Flinn’s smug smile twitched but didn’t falter. “What did Zoe tell you?”

She firmed her grip on the gun, her face twisting into a mask of tightly controlled pain and anger. “You mean before you had her
killed
?”

Flinn finally had the sense to raise his hands in supplication. “Let’s stay calm, Samantha. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. We can talk this through, and everything will be okay.”

“It’s too late for that.” She jerked the gun toward the chair Mac had pulled out from the table. “Sit.”

Flinn didn’t move.

She pulled the trigger.

Mac scuttled back, instinctively covering his head with one arm. Holy shit!

Silence followed, and when he dared to look, he saw a very unhappy Flinn. No bullet hole marked his forehead, which was more than Mac had expected.

He glanced at Samantha, noted the lethal determination firming her jaw, and got that she hadn’t missed by accident. Her formerly trembling hand couldn’t have been steadier now.

Mac swallowed, glad he wasn’t Flinn. And impressed, not to mention a bit freaked out, by how comfortably she held that gun. Like it was a part of her.

“Sit,” she repeated.

Flinn, hands still raised, did as he was told, a weird smile curving his lips.

Samantha flicked barely a glance at Mac. “Tie him up.”

He didn’t bother asking with what. He scrambled to his feet and started going through kitchen drawers until he found twine. Samantha’s hands may have been deadly steady, but his had to be registering 6.0 on the Richter scale. She’d killed two men without flinching. Granted, they’d pointed huge guns at them, but still . . .

On his knees behind Flinn’s chair, he wrapped the twine around the man’s wrists several times, oddly indifferent when the bastard squirmed and complained, “Too tight.”

“Bummer,” Mac mumbled and wrapped it tighter, surprised, and a bit ashamed, at his own malicious satisfaction when the guy gave a pained grunt. That’s what you get for messing with my girl. The thought made him go still for a moment. My girl? Where had that come from? Jesus, one erotic dream and—

“His legs, too,” she said. “And his weapon . . . it’s in a holster under his left arm . . . get it and his cell phone and get rid of them.”

“He’s got a gun?” Mac figured he should be embarrassed at the way his voice squeaked at the end. But, Jesus, the guy had a gun and hadn’t even bothered to draw it? That took some pretty big balls to think he didn’t need a weapon to take on this woman. Or perhaps Dr. Evil was delusional.

A few minutes later, Mac sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork. “Not bad for a guy who can’t follow a map.”

When he got no response, he looked around and saw that Samantha had silently slipped away.

“She’s going to get you killed,” Flinn said.

“And what were you going to do? Serve me brunch?” Mac got up and walked around the chair so he could pat down the left side of the man’s jacket until he felt the gun. He had to fumble to release the snap securing it in place. Sheesh, the douche bag hadn’t even prepared in advance for the possibility of pulling his weapon. Mac finally managed to remove the gun from its holster. He carefully placed it in the sink, well out of its owner’s reach, then began going through the pockets of the fuming, red-faced man in search of his phone.

“We can make a deal,” Flinn said. “Anything you want.”

“A million dollars.”

Flinn was so smooth he didn’t even roll his eyes. “That could be arranged.”

Mac snorted as he pulled the phone from the guy’s inner jacket pocket. “Right. I’d have a tough time spending it while I’m dead.
Amazon.com
doesn’t ship to the afterlife.”

“I give you my word that no harm would come to you.”

Mac bent so that he was eye to eye with the soulless bastard. “Yeah? You ever give that word to Samantha?”

Cold, dead eyes stared back at him. “You have no idea what you’re doing. Whatever she’s told you, it’s a lie.”

“Watch it. Your pants are on fire.” Mac dropped the phone on the floor and stomped it into pieces.

“You’re a foolish man,” Flinn said.

“Better foolish than tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere.” He moved to the drawer that held dish towels and used one to gag Dr. Evil.

Then he tried not to shudder as he glanced at the dead men on the floor near the door. Two precise shots. She hadn’t even hesitated.

God, he hoped he hadn’t chosen the wrong side.

CHAPTER NINE

I
n the bedroom, Sam set aside her SIG and used one hand to shake out her damp jeans, her other arm pressed against her side to limit the jostling that sent sharp, head-spinning pain through her shoulder.

How had Flinn found her so quickly? She knew that no one had followed her out of DC. She’d even ditched her car and work cell phone to prevent GPS from pinpointing her location. She’d never mentioned this cabin to anyone she worked with. Even if she had, they couldn’t have found it easily because its ownership was linked to the Lake Avalon newspaper rather than the Trudeau family.

Yet Flinn had found her within a day. He had to have some way. God, had he tracked her by her personal cell phone? How could he even know she had it? She’d been so careful, almost OCD about it. She’d obviously underestimated him, underestimated his paranoia, his lack of trust. And if he knew about that secret phone, that most likely meant he’d been keeping much closer tabs on her than she’d ever thought, and—no, wait. Ah, crap. Of
course
.

The transmitter.

It had been so many years since the implantation . . . Still, she should have remembered. Would have, probably, if she hadn’t been so upset about Zoe. Not to mention bleeding and running for her life.

How the hell was she supposed to get the damn thing out by herself?

Little white spots began to jiggle in front of her eyes, and she sat on the edge of the bed. She was so screwed.

“You need some help?”

She jerked her head up and immediately had to suppress the surge of nausea. She was worse than screwed. And she’d managed to get this guy, this
nice
,
good
guy, screwed as well.

“I’m—”

“Fine. Yeah, I know. So what’s the plan?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Plan?”

“Yeah. I figure we’re hitting the road in the next, oh, thirty seconds or so?”

“We?”

He cocked his head. “You’re not strong enough to get out of here on your own, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving you the keys to my car. Even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to drive it over the bumpy terrain out of here without passing out and hitting a tree. Like it or not, you need me.”

“I don’t
need
anyone.” She pushed to her feet, the wet jeans grasped in one hand, intending to get dressed and get out. She’d figure out what to do about the transmitter later.

It took her only a few seconds to realize that getting dressed one-handed didn’t work, especially when the clothing was wet denim. She sank back onto the bed. Defeat loomed like a huge black shroud above her head, threatening to drop down and suffocate her.

Mac pivoted and walked out of the bedroom, and she raised her head to watch him go. Good. Common sense had finally kicked in. If he was smart, he’d be in his car and out of there within a matter of minutes.

But then he came back, a pair of black drawstring pants in one hand. “You’ll swim in these, but they’re dry, and the waist is adjustable.”

Without waiting for a response, he eased the jeans away from her and dropped them on the floor. “You’ll need to stand up.”

She reluctantly did as he said, and he stepped behind her, reaching his arms around her so he could position the pants at her front. All she had to do was step into them, but indecision paralyzed her. He needed to go. He needed to leave her here and go
now
.

But then she’d have no means of escape.

Behind her, Mac silently waited.

She sifted through her options. She could knock him cold and take his car. Which would leave him here with Flinn, who would kill him to keep him quiet. Bad idea.
Really
bad idea.

She could hike out while Mac drove in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between them as possible. Assuming she could walk more than a few hundred yards before the last of her strength deserted her.

Only one option remained: She could kill Flinn.

But no, God, she couldn’t. He was a federal agent. And she didn’t know what was going on. What if Zoe had jumped to the wrong conclusions?

Besides, could she even kill a bound, unarmed man, especially one she’d known for fourteen years—and, God help her, had felt affection for? Shooting Deke and Tom had been different. They’d have shot her dead after one gesture from their boss. Flinn, however, was tied to a chair.

Closing her eyes, she bit her bottom lip. She had no choice. She
did
need Mac. At least to get off the mountain. Once they reached civilization, she’d have him drop her at the first gas station or convenience store and send him on his way. With any luck at all, Flinn would never be able to identify him.

Resolved, she grasped Mac’s arm with her good hand to steady herself. She realized too late that she hadn’t braced for the skin-on-skin contact, and the empathic flash of his disbelief when she’d shot Deke and Tom raced through her. His horror reminded her of the first time she’d seen someone die violently. She remembered the pain on her father’s face, heard again the burble of his choked breathing as he’d bled to death in her arms. Two people had died before her eyes that day, one at her own hands.

“Hey.” Mac’s gentle nudge drew her out of the memory before it could drag her down. He joggled the drawstring pants, as though to say, Come on already.

Using his muscled arms for support, she stepped into the pants and helped him draw them up her legs, then watched as he deftly drew the drawstring snug and tied it. He had big hands, she noted. Tender hands. Chaste, too, because he’d done nothing more than secure the pants, not even brushing his fingers against her skin.

“See?” he said, his voice low near her ear. “I can be useful.”

She shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck and his strong, warm arms around her, fought the urge to drop her head back against his shoulder and let his strength support her. But, no, she couldn’t do that. He was already compromised, maybe too much for her to save him.

He was right, though. He could be useful.

“I need you to do something else for me,” she said.

He released her and took the few steps so that they faced each other. “Name it.”

She looked up into his hazel green eyes and wondered how he could be so giving when she’d dragged him into a situation that could very well get him killed. Was he for real?

He arched one dark brow, and she realized he was waiting for her request. “I need you to go to the kitchen and get the smallest, sharpest knife you can find.”

Deep trenches appeared in his forehead. “What for?”