True Shot (9 page)

“Then how do you know you work for the FBI?”

She didn’t. At least, not now. Surely she wouldn’t have blindly followed Flinn without question. Would she? No, wait, she’d had no choice. He’d blackmailed her—

“Samantha ?”

“Sam.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t call me Samantha. That’s what Flinn calls me. But I’m Sam. I’ve always been Sam.”

“Okay.”

The colors blurring by outside the SUV window were so pretty. Reds and golds and yellows. She’d liked fall ever since the first time she’d witnessed the colorful change in season while on vacation with her family in the Shenandoahs. Winter? Not so much.

She blinked her eyes open—when had they closed?—and tried to get oriented. She was supposed to be doing something important. Studying for a test. No . . . weapons training. That was it. She had to learn how to handle a gun. “Keep it pointed down range,” a male voice told her. “Okay, sight down the barrel. That’s it.” She imagined the target before her bore the face of the man who’d stolen her life. “Release the safety with your thumb.”

“You doing all right over there?”

A different male voice, this one concerned, pulled her back into the present, into an SUV driving down a twisty, wet road at the height of fall. Her senses took a long, lazy spin as the truck followed a curve. Oh, right, an N3 drug was eating away at her memory. And there was something important she had to tell this man. What was his name? Mac something. Mac . . .
something
. And she needed to tell him . . . damn. Tell him
what
?

Oh, right.

“It’s already started. I don’t know how long I’ll be out, but wait it out. Don’t take me to the hospital. Don’t use your credit cards or cell phone. Don’t panic. Just . . . wait.”

His eyes, fixed on the road, narrowed, and she thought that was kind of funny, really. He didn’t believe a word she said, yet worry radiated off him in waves. He must be a pretty nice guy to be so kind and caring about someone like her.

Focus, she thought. Stay on topic. Think.

“When I’m conscious again, touch me. Understand?”

He didn’t respond.

“Yeah.” His lips barely moved.

“Promise me you’ll do what I said.” A decent guy like him had to be a stickler for promises.

A muscle at his temple flexed, but he said nothing. No nod, either.

He swallowed but still didn’t look at her. “Fine.”

She let her shoulders relax. She had no choice but to trust him. And, oddly, she
did
trust him. He exuded honorable intentions. And strength. And dimples. And muscles . . .

Her eyes slipped closed, and she fought the pull of sleep . . . why was she fighting it again? If she was so tired, why didn’t she just sleep? She didn’t have anything else to do while someone else did the driving.

“Sam? Hey, Sam.”

His voice followed her down into a deep, dark hole.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

F
linn Ford bit out every swear word he could think of as Marco Ricci, his least-favorite among N3’s goon squad, sliced through the cords biting into his wrists. “Fucking goddamn son of a bitch. What took you so long?”

“I left DC as soon as I lost contact with Deke and Tom, sir. Got here as fast as I could.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Just . . . Samantha’s transmitter has been removed. I know she got rid of her work cell phone, but please tell me we’re tracking the GPS on her personal cell.”

“Negative, sir. She doesn’t have it with her.”

Flinn scowled at the imposing Italian man. Dressed all in black like Deke and Tom, he was muscular and tall, a permanent frown etched into his features. Flinn wanted to take his head off for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that an injured Samantha and an unarmed civilian had gotten the drop on him and two of his weapons-laden men.

“ At least tell me someone got the tags on that Jeep.”

“Yes, sir. Deke called it in before . . .”

As Marco trailed off, Flinn glanced at Deke’s unmoving body on the floor, eyes open and staring. Next to him, Tom sprawled in a similar pose, just as dead. Regret nudged him. He’d liked Deke and Tom. Good soldiers. Competent and committed to the cause. Samantha had taken them out without hesitation. Irrefutable proof that he wouldn’t be able to reason with her.

He stood, rubbing his sore wrists, and walked to the small refrigerator. Inside, he found a can of Coca-Cola and popped it open. The two hours he’d spent tied to a chair, cursing Samantha and that bastard she’d hooked up with, had left him thirsty. “I’m not going to lose her, Marco.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve traced the tags to the Avis rental agency at Dulles Airport, sir. The guy’s name is Mackenzie Hunter of Lake Avalon, Florida.”

“What’s his relationship to Samantha?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Wait, did you say Lake Avalon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s Samantha’s hometown. And Hunter’s from there, too? Yet she insisted she didn’t know him. I suspected she was trying to protect him.” How long had Samantha and this man been in touch? What had she told him about N3?

“Sir?”

Flinn tamped down the black anger. “What else do we know about Hunter?”

“As requested, Natalie is compiling a more detailed report, but it will take some time, sir.”

Sir. The overabundance of respect irked him. He didn’t even know when Tom and Deke had stopped
sir
-ing him to death, but it had been a relief. Now all he had was Marco, the muscle he liked the least.

He rubbed a hand over the smooth skin of his head. “Let’s put a tap on the phones of Samantha’s family members in Lake Avalon. Parents and two sisters. If she tries to contact them, we can trace the call from that end. Does the Jeep have GPS?”

“No, sir.”

“Fuck!” Flinn fought the urge to crush the can of Coke in his fist.

Marco’s dark expression didn’t change. “Sir?”

“The transmitter’s been tampered with, Marco. She’s out there right now with no memory of who she is.
What
she is.”

“Yes, sir. Isn’t that the way the fail-safe is supposed to work, sir?”

Flinn gulped down some more Coke. That was indeed how the fail-safe drug worked. For a couple of days, anyway. And then it wore off. He’d never told his operatives that part. What good would the fail-safe do if under interrogation an operative told his or her captors that all they had to do was wait out the drug’s effects, that within a few days, they could begin the interrogations and torture all over again and get what they wanted?

The drug was specifically designed to suppress only episodic memory—the what, when and where of personality. The operative retained the instincts and skills of a trained government agent. The goal was to block the operative’s access to sensitive information for at least three days, giving N3 enough time to mount a rescue. Unlike intelligence officers in other agencies, his operatives were not easily expendable. They had abilities that no amount of training could instill in even the most ambitious agent. And there were far too few of them. At least, there were
now
. He would change that very soon. First, he had to retrieve Samantha. Once he had her back, forcing her to cooperate would be the easy part.

“Sir?”

Flinn glanced at Marco, who maintained parade rest, legs set wide, hands behind his back. Awaiting his orders instead of thinking for himself. Flinn detested people who didn’t think for themselves. Samantha did and, while that was a problem now, it had been the reason she was one of his most competent operatives.

“We’ve lost three men, Marco.” He clenched his teeth at the renewed surge of anger at Samantha for costing the team so dearly, and at such a critical time. “We need more muscle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have to return to the District for a meeting, but I need you to stay here and clean up this mess. I’ll check in with Natalie and have her line up some new men in the area. You can pick them up on your way back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I need a new cell phone. That bastard Hunter destroyed mine.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

C
arrying two white plastic grocery bags from the drugstore a block away, Mac stepped into the dimly lit motel room and shut and locked the door on a weary sigh.

He could see from there that Samantha . . .
Sam
hadn’t budged under the covers of the double bed in the center of the tiny room—the best he could do with half of the hundred bucks he’d had in his pocket. A Motel 6 clone, minus five, in Front Royal, Virginia.

He’d spent the better part of three hours ignoring the relentless chant in his head: Idiot, idiot, idiot.

As soon as she’d lapsed into unconsciousness, he should have taken her to the nearest hospital, promises be damned. Without the sister connection to Charlie and Alex, he might have. Or maybe not. He had no idea anymore. Just as he had no idea how the hell she’d known about his altercation with Skip Alteen’s pipe wrench.

Charlie must have mentioned the psycho’s rampage in Lake Avalon when she’d told Sam about Alex’s shooting. Both incidents had happened at the same time, so that made sense. Except for the part about Sam not having any clue who Mac was, so why would Charlie tell her anything about him?

And there was the small detail about the bottle of Absolut he’d had cradled in his hands when Alteen knocked him senseless. No one knew about that. Not even Charlie.

God. Absolut. What he wouldn’t give now for a shot, or three, to take the edge off.

Just as well. Drunken man on the run with an amnesiac spy with psychic gifts sounded too much like a lame pitch for Hollywood.

He started to pace, and three steps into it, he realized he should have picked up some food while he’d been at the drugstore. Sam might be hungry when she woke up. Were there restaurants nearby? He’d been so focused on her state of unconsciousness that he hadn’t paid any attention to the motel’s location, beyond the drugstore in the next block.

He could go to the front desk and ask for directions to the nearest fast-food place. That wouldn’t undermine the “my wife is ill and needs a place to rest” story he’d fed the teenager at the desk. Of course, the sixteenish girl in heavy black eye makeup had handed over a room key without once making eye contact or putting down the cell phone glued to the side of her head. He doubted she gave a crap about his “wife’s” need to rest.

He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer, hoping for a phone book. Nothing.

Okay, this was silly. Sam was unconscious. She didn’t need food right this minute.

What he really needed to do was talk.

He checked his watch. Almost eight. Maybe Charlie was home from work by now.

He dug the new prepaid cell phone out of one of the plastic bags and went to work on the packaging. Maybe Charlie could give him some advice on how to deal with her sister.

By the time he got the phone out of its hard-plastic shell, he was ready to hurl it across the room. The entire time, Sam didn’t stir. A little mumbling in her sleep might have calmed him. Assuming she didn’t mumble about killing people.

He sat in the creaky, worn-out chair in the corner and started thumbing the numbers for Charlie.

“Hello?” Charlie sounded breathless and hesitant.

“It’s Mac.”

“Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize your number. What’s up?”

“I’m . . .” He trailed off, gaze fixed on the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest.

“Mac?”

Yeah, he could say that. Easy. And then the loony police would be after
him
.

“Mac? Are you there? Is everything at the cabin all right?”

“Everything’s great. I, uh, just wanted to say thanks again for persuading me to come up here.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound strange.”

“You just haven’t heard my relaxed voice in a while.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

“I . . .” He needed a segue, a way to initiate a conversation about Sam without sounding like a lunatic. “I was looking at the photo on the fireplace. The one of you and Alex and Sam.”

“Sure, I know the one.”

He heard rustling in the background—maybe sheets—and whispered words that included “Mac” and “right back,” and a low rumbling voice in response. She must have been in bed with Noah. And she’d sounded so breathless because he’d interrupted something sweaty and naked . . . at eight o’clock at night. Jesus, they were rabbits. “Is this a bad time? I can—”

“No, it’s okay. What’s on your mind?”

“I just . . .” He jammed a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself for not thinking this through. Typical of Mac Hunter, really. Talk first and regret later. And Charlie, bless her soul, had tolerated just about every fuck-up from him he could muster. From dumping her to score a promotion at work to making a complete ass of himself after he’d realized his mistake. Lucky for her, Noah Lassiter had swept in to pick up the pieces. Lucky bastard.

His gaze strayed again to Sam, and his heart did a restless tango against his ribs. More than anything, he wanted to protect this woman who’d hijacked his life. Was that weird?

Charlie’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Mac?”

“You, uh, your sister . . . Sam . . . she took off shortly after the picture was taken, right?”

“Yes. As soon as she turned eighteen.”

“Do you know why she left?”

A long pause, as if Charlie were trying to figure out where he was going with this. “She and Mom had a fight. That wasn’t all that unusual, because, you know, Mom has her issues.”

He grimaced as he remembered Charlie telling him about her mother’s “issues,” which included an extremely short temper with middle-child Charlie. “So do you know what she . . . Sam, I mean, did after she left Lake Avalon?”