Authors: Maria Hammarblad
Covert Identity
Covert Identity
By
Maria Hammarblad
Other Books By Maria Hammarblad
Kidnapped
Courage and Retribution
Undercover
Operation Earth
Flashback
Borealis XI, Shadow of a Man
Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc.
27305 W. Live Oak Rd #424
Castaic, CA 91384
http://www.DesertBreezePublishing.com
Copyright © 2016 by Maria Hammarblad
ISBN 13: 978-1-68294-015-0
Published in the United States of America
Publish Date: January 2016
Editor-In-Chief: Gail R. Delaney
Editor: Lysa Demorest
Marketing Director: Jenifer Ranieri
Cover Model: Shawn Thomas Fejas
Cover Artist: Taria Reed
Cover Art Copyright by Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc ©2016
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.
Ebooks are
not
transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise
lawful
recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.
Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement,
including
infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
––––––––
"I
'm walking on sunshine, oooh-oooh, I'm walking on sunshine, oooh-oooh, and don't it feel good..."
It might not be the exact words, but who cared?
A loud rumble interrupted Sharon's joyful—and slightly out of tune—rendering of Katrina and the Waves' old megahit. She looked at the meters on the dashboard, but even if they weren't exactly in optimal positions nothing pointed to the danger zone. Was the engine about to fall out of her old truck? Maybe she lost a muffler.
"No baby, don't do this to mommy."
I have to pull over.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the next lane was empty, and spotted the motorcycle sneaking around in the blind spot just as she started to turn.
"Oh, you bastard."
How could the driver have any hearing left at all? Maybe he was deaf. Oh well, at least there wasn't a problem with her car.
Up the road, the streetlight turned red and Sharon groaned.
Crap.
She would have to listen to douchebag's oversized and under-silenced vehicle even longer. Tapping the brake, she pulled to a smooth stop and watched the guy come up next to her. He put his feet down on the road, balanced the bike between his legs, and flexed his fingers. Then, he looked up at her, flashed a smile, and gave a little wave.
She hurried to turn her face forward again and fixed her eyes on the traffic lights.
Everything about him, from his boots to the jean jacket under a leather vest screamed "
infamous criminal motorcycle gang"
and made her want to be on the other side of town. At least there was only one of him and not a dozen. Time to be grateful for the little things in life.
As soon as the light changed she slammed the gas pedal, forcing the aging Chevy to leap down the road. She wouldn't be able to outrun a bike if he really wanted to catch her, but if she could just put some distance between them she wouldn't have to hear all that noise anymore. Peeking in the rear view mirror, she saw him make a gentle start.
"Bye-bye, loser."
He seemed to obey the speed limit, and Sharon settled for an almost legal fifteen miles per hour over the designated forty. The gap increased until she kept a decent distance to the disturber of her Sunday peace. The radio changed songs to another old '80s hit, and she hummed along.
"Near a tree by the river is a hole in the ground, where an old man of Aaron goes around and around..."
Aaron or Saran? Isn't Saran plastic wrap? Weird lyrics either way.
She shrugged it off. Her car wasn't broken, the nuisance was behind her, and it was a good day to be alive.
She had a green arrow for the left turn towards the supermarket, made it over the road without waiting, and smiled when she snagged a good parking spot.
A good day, indeed
.
Her purse fell over on the passenger's seat and she bent over to gather up the mess of coins, lipstick, pens, and old receipts. Why did she never learn to close it?
Hey, look at that, batteries. I've needed batteries. Wonder what else is in here.
A deep rumble approached, but it couldn't be Mr. Loud-and-Annoying, could it?
She lifted her head enough to peek through the window. The man on the bike pulled into the spot right next to her.
"You've gotta be kidding me. A biker stalker, just what I need."
It was probably just a coincidence; there were no reasons for an unknown biker to follow her. Even if he did, not much would happen in a crowded parking lot, and she couldn't stay in the car forever. Driving away would make her look pretty darned silly.
She stepped out of the car, but held the keys in a firm grip with her thumb on the panic button. Electronic door locks and alarm were the best after-market investment she made in the car, even better than the stereo.
As tempting as it was to look at him, she kept her gaze on the store.
"You took off pretty fast there. What kinda engine do you have?"
Conversation? I didn't expect that. Eh, he's probably just interested in the car.
She once had a guy follow her from the other side of town to ask if it was for sale. The question had made her both relieved and disappointed; her car was worth stalking, but
she
wasn't.
Longish brown hair fell into a stubbly but handsome face, and warm brown eyes sought hers.
Damn, he's kinda cute.
She slapped herself mentally. She should know better than feel interest in any dirty, noisy stranger just because he was built like a barn door.
"Of course I was going fast. I was trying to get away from
you
. Your bike's so loud I thought my car was breaking down."
His laughter surprised her.
"I'll keep that in mind. Hey, I was going in for coffee, want some?"
What? Who would go to Wal-Mart for coffee?
He must be heading for the little McDonald's just inside the door, and why did she even
think
about saying yes?
"No. I've gotta... go shop... and go home."
He shrugged and stayed on his bike as she walked towards the entrance. His gaze burned into her back and she yearned to turn around to see if he really watched, or if it was her imagination.
If he
were
watching, she'd give him no such pleasure. She kept her eyes on the door and trudged forward.
*****
T
here were a million or so people in the store, pushing and shoving. A woman with curlers in her hair and a dress that looked like a bathrobe bumped into Sharon with her shopping cart, glared, and hurried forward on a life-or-death mission to grab some spaghetti.
The next couple of aisles were just crowded, but the one with tea and coffee had people yelling at each other over the last packet of marked-down ice tea.
Do I have enough coffee to get me through the week? Probably, or I can buy it somewhere else. I'm not going down there.
She looked over her shopping list and someone elbowed her so hard she staggered into a shelf. The man had bushy white hair, most of it coming out of his ears, and was at least a foot taller than her. Pushing back might not be a brilliant idea.
Strange there weren't more fights. Florida in winter had too many people and too little room. In spite of needing a long list of things, Sharon grabbed the mere necessities and fled.
"Weekends are bad for shopping. Why don't I ever learn weekends are bad for shopping?"
The lady in line behind her said, "This season is bad for doing anything. I can't wait until July."
Good point. July would be hot and humid, and most tourists would be somewhere else. Heavenly.
When it was her turn to pay, the girl behind the register said, "Thirty-two fifty."
Sharon handed over forty-two fifty and the girl stared at the money. "This is too much."
"No, you take that and give me a ten back."
"Are you sure?"
A snorting noise from behind Sharon revealed her queuing comrade about to fall over with choked laughter.
"Yes, I'm sure. It's thirty-two fifty, I gave you forty-two fifty, and the difference is ten. Forty-two minus thirty-two is ten."
The girl still looked uncertain. The woman behind Sharon said, "She's right, honey. Give her a ten."
In theory she could shop somewhere else, but it wouldn't matter. All stores were chaos in winter, all roads were clogged, and any errand that would normally take ten minutes required at least an hour.
The girl finally gave her a ten. Sharon crumpled it up and stuck it in her pocket, clutched her plastic bag with groceries, and hurried towards the rays of sunlight shining through the door.
I hate snowbird season. I feel like a ball in a pinball machine.
The fresh air outside was divine and she drew a deep breath.
She was completely unprepared when a sardonic voice right behind her said, "That was quick."
Crap
. With the chaos inside she forgot all about
him
.
Even separated from the bike, the man was gigantic. He leaned back against the rough wall, sipped coffee from a paper cup, and held a smoldering cigarette.
There's no getting rid of this guy.
She nodded towards the smoke.
"Bad habit. Those will kill you."
He looked at the butt, grimaced, and threw it on the ground.
"You're right. I've quit many times. The cigarettes just don't know it yet."
The bag in her hand was heavy. She could feel it dig into her fingers, and shifted it to the other side. The stranger straightened and reached out a hand.
"Lemme take that for you."
Every instinct in her body urged her to say "no" and leave, and she was more than surprised to see her own hand hold out the bag. His fingers touched hers when he took it, and the brief contact reminded her of something she missed.
She clearly needed to get out more.
A minute later, he leaned against the door of her truck, sipping his coffee. He glanced at her over the rim before he held the cup out.
"Want some?"
She looked down at her shoes and shook her head. Laughing would be rude, but the very idea of sharing his coffee was absurd.
"No, but thank you for asking." He shrugged, but didn't move to let her in. "You're kinda... in my way."
The brown eyes demanded attention. "I know."
"This wasn't a coincidence, was it? You did it on purpose."
"Who, me?"
He couldn't keep the façade up; he broke into a smile. "Yes. C'mon, you're a beautiful girl in a classic car and you drive like the devil. Can't blame a guy for trying."
No one had called her beautiful for a long time, and it made a strange warmth spread through her chest, even though he looked like a member of some crazy gang and probably sold drugs, ate little children, and raped and killed women like her on a regular basis.
"Hold this." He pressed the mug in her hands and burst out with sudden energy, pulling a small card from a pocket and scribbling something on it.
When did criminal bikers start carrying pens? Or business cards?
"Tell you what, give me a call and I'll take you for a ride on my bike."
She looked at the chromed monster and lifted an eyebrow.
Yes, getting onto that thing is on the top of my list to do. Not.
He cupped his hands over his ears. "I'll bring you... little earmuffs, so it won't be too loud. And... And a little helmet, you'll be cute. Think about it."
