Shadow Woman: A Novel (29 page)

“If he contacts you …”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Al said dryly.

Felice left her half-full cup of coffee sitting on the table and left the tank without looking back.

Al followed her, retrieved his weapon and cell phone, and
headed for the room where Dereon Ashe was on duty, listening for activity at Subject C’s house, watching the monitors on her car, listening to activity in her office. If that duty had been dull before, it was now beyond boring. There was nothing to listen to. If enough of Lizzy had come back, there was no way she’d risk returning to any place or person she’d known as Lizette. The question was, how much had come back? Just enough to make her run, or enough to make her dangerous?

Felice would take his advice and put her specialist on her own home. Maybe she’d even think of him as a double-duty off-the-books employee, a bodyguard for herself as well as someone who could take Xavier down when he came after her. Xavier would be looking for that move; when he moved in on Felice he’d be looking for someone like her specialist. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t be the man Al himself had trained, years ago.

Felice thought she had everything well in hand, but Al would put his money on Xavier any day.

Three hours
. Three hours and fifteen minutes of misery and determination. This section of road was straight, thank heavens, but she could use a downhill coast right about now. Her muscles were on fire, from her neck to her ankles. Her butt was beyond numb.

She was passing through a small collection of businesses that likely constituted some kind of township, but if there had been a sign she’d missed it. She
had
seen a sign that said the speed limit was 3.0, which had distracted her until she’d realized the decimal point was a bullet hole.

For the past hour, her entire focus had been on moving forward while her body screamed for her to stop. Curse words she hadn’t even realized she knew slipped from her lips as she pedaled. To anyone watching, with her backpack, helmet, drugstore clothes, and the now constant muttering, she probably looked like a crazy bag lady with a bicycle instead of a shopping cart, and she didn’t freakin’ care.

Maybe it was the constant pedaling, the rhythm, the steady
sound of the tires on the road, or simply the fact that for the first time in a long while her mind wasn’t entirely occupied with how to survive from one minute to the next, but as she struggled up one hill and coasted down the other side, a few memories suddenly eased into focus. She tensed, expecting the wallop of a headache that would knock her off the bike, but … nothing. No pain, no nausea. She relaxed and let the memories come.

The memories weren’t anything earth-shattering, and really not all that specific, just kind of general-knowledge memories. She hadn’t always worked in an office, hadn’t always been a predictable, routine-bound, never-miss-a-day, nine-to-five employee.
Chicago. A security firm
. Not some little fly-by-night PI outfit, but a top-notch security firm with offices located in a tall building in downtown Chicago, with windows that overlooked the city. The firm had attracted a lot of high-profile clients. She’d worked as a bodyguard on more than one occasion; men especially liked her because she didn’t look like a bodyguard, but she could shoot like one.

And drive
. Her heart skipped a beat. So that was where she’d learned evasive driving, how to spot a tail and lose it. The job also explained why she’d so often reached for a handgun that wasn’t there. Once there had been a time when she’d never been without her weapon.

There was still nothing that would explain why she’d lost her memory of that time or why anyone would want her dead, but her previous occupation explained a lot. It was a relief to know that these newfound skills she possessed had come from a legitimate job and not … well,
not
.

When she actively tried to remember, something blocked her, something got in the way. So as she pedaled along the side of the road she didn’t make an effort to think about anything in particular; she just let her mind go free, and that’s when the images played through her mind.

There were faces, the images of people she’d worked with; some were clearer than others. She didn’t reach for names, didn’t want to force anything, but at this point any memory of her previous life was welcome. She hurt, she was tired; at times she just wanted to stop and pull onto the side of the road and sit there until someone found her. The memories kept her going.

If she just pedaled and let her mind go, more would come to her. And they did: a target range where she’d honed her skills. There’d been an office, too, but she hadn’t spent much time there. She remembered getting on a plane to go … somewhere. If the memories didn’t come easily she didn’t force them, so when the plane didn’t go anywhere she relaxed and let it sit there while she thought of other things, other places and memories.

A football game at Soldier Field, watching the Bears; laughing over a beer with … someone. Maybe a coworker, maybe just a friend. She remembered being grabbed from behind, caught by surprise by a well-muscled and very tall man while on a job and still coming out on top, thanks to her martial arts training. She’d taken classes in college and had discovered an affinity for it. How had she forgotten that?

Stupid question. How the hell had she forgotten
anything
?

So, she’d worked as a bodyguard. She’d even been something of a whiz kid, picking up new weapons and skills with ease, managing to appear deceptively harmless when she needed to, while never losing her focus. She’d been more than a bodyguard, though that had been her primary area of expertise. On occasion she’d tailed a subject or two, she’d infiltrated a company to learn more about the CFO, she’d…

A car horn, too close and too loud, jerked Lizzy back to the present. She’d drifted too far to the left and had alarmed or annoyed the driver who wanted to pass. She jerked the bike back to the right, lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the car,
and pulled her brain back to the present. Wouldn’t that be a trip, to shake X, come up with a plan, start to remember, and then get run over by a random car? That would just be
too
unfair.

The car passed, and Lizzy had the road to herself again. Maybe it was best to just accept what she’d remembered and not push for more—not yet, anyway. It wasn’t in her nature to let something like that drop, but now wasn’t the time. She didn’t want to deal with the pain and nausea, and she knew she shouldn’t let herself get too distracted. She wasn’t safe yet.

None of what she remembered explained the memory loss or why someone was trying to kill her. There were a couple of possible explanations for the selective amnesia and even the facial reconstruction: a car accident; a bullet in her head—though surely there would be physical evidence of that, a scar no surgery could completely disguise. She could come up with explanations for the surgery and the memory loss, but there were very few that covered both. As to why someone would now be trying to kill her … she needed more information before she could make sense of that.

At least she had an explanation for why she sometimes knew what she knew, such as evasive driving and hot-wiring a car.

Duh! Collections!
Now she remembered. Before she’d become a bodyguard, she’d repossessed a car or two, or ten. The cars she’d hot-wired hadn’t been stolen; they’d been recovered by the company to whom they rightly belonged when the purchasers stopped making payments. Of course, some recoveries hadn’t been any more complicated than having a tow truck pick them up off the street, but some others had been … interesting, to say the least.

She’d liked her work as a bodyguard much better. The pay had been significantly better and she’d never been sent on a job that required her to get grease under her fingernails. At least, not that she could recall.

As she coasted down a small hill, she took momentary pleasure in the feel of the wind in her face and ignored the sad truth that another uphill piece of road was looming ahead. Crap. She didn’t know how much more her legs could take.

Oh, God, she was going to die.

Lizzy didn’t think she’d ever before been this tired, not even during training. A couple of times, when her legs and back hurt so bad she didn’t think she could go another inch, she got off the bike and pushed it. At least that used different muscles, and walking was a hell of a lot easier than pedaling. After all, she walked every day of her life. When this was over, she’d pay money not to ever have to park her ass on a bicycle again.

And speaking of asses, even
that
was sore.

She didn’t remember ever being sore when she was a kid, when she rode her bicycle every day. How did kids
do
that? Why didn’t their little asses get sore? It just wasn’t fair. She was running for her life, here, not just playing around the neighborhood.

At one point when she was pushing the bike she thought she heard the roar of a motorcycle coming up behind her, hidden by a curve in the road, and her heart nearly stopped. Quickly she left the road, shoving the bike through the high weeds on the side of the road until she reached some kind of bush. She laid the bike on the ground behind the bush, then flattened herself in the weeds beside it. At that point she didn’t care if she was in the middle of a patch of poison ivy, or even if there was a freaking snake crawling up her leg. Her heart was pounding so hard her ribs were reverberating.

She buried her face against the earth, the smell of grass and dirt filling her nose, leaves prickling against her skin, and listened to the deep, coughing, almost tiger-like roar that signaled a Harley, as it got closer and closer. X’s motorcycle was a
Harley. No other motorcycle in the world sounded like it, in her opinion.

Chills ran over her entire body. Dear God, how had he found her so fast? She’d dumped her car. She’d dumped her phone. She’d dumped her purse. She was on a
bicycle
.

At least she’d chosen a black helmet instead of the bright pink one that had caught her eye. Pink would stand out, even among these weeds. Black just blended in. The bright spokes on the bicycle tires … would they flash in the sun? If she had time she’d pull some weeds to cover the bicycle, but she didn’t have time; the motorcycle was right
there
and she didn’t dare look, didn’t dare move—

It roared past without the rider even letting off the gas, and Lizzy went limp with relief. Then she quickly lifted her head to stare at the swiftly receding figure to see if she could tell for certain if it was X, if that was the same Harley.

No way to tell, not from the back, and not at the speed at which he was traveling, disappearing around a curve. The best she could tell was that the rider looked like a big man.

So … inconclusive. Could be X, could be just another guy on a motorcycle. There were a lot of Harleys in the world.

But, if it
was
him … oh, shit. He was now in front of her, and she might run into him at any turn of the road. All he had to do was pick a good spot and wait for her.

On the other hand, this spot right here was pretty secluded. Cautiously she sat up and looked around: rural, no houses in sight, which was probably a good thing or her bolt into the weeds might have been witnessed. She could just envision some curious kid tromping through the weeds toward her, alerting X to her presence.

And, thinking this through, if that
had
been X, he had to be tracking her somehow and would have seen that she’d stopped, and he’d have stopped too. Ergo, that either hadn’t been X or he didn’t have a tracker on her. And if he didn’t have a tracker
on her, what were the odds that he’d be on this two-lane road heading deep into Virginia, right behind her? Almost zero. Logically, then, that hadn’t been X.

She sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She’d felt safe on this road, on her bicycle, her identity hidden under the helmet and sunglasses. Her instincts had been right … she hoped. But if she heard any more motorcycles coming up behind, she was still going to get off the road and hide.

Between the walking and this episode, she’d lost enough time. She had to get back in the saddle—literally—and get going. Standing, she settled the backpack in the proper position again, tightening the straps a little because throwing herself on the ground had shifted everything. She pulled the bike upright, pushed it through the tall weeds to the road, and mounted up.

The short “rest,” as stressful as it had been, had done her tired muscles a lot of good. Of course, the adrenaline shot caused by sheer terror had a lot to do with that, but she’d take whatever push she could get that would move her on down the road.

If she made it to the bus station alive, she was never, ever throwing her leg across a bicycle again. They were instruments of torture.

Pedaling steadily, she tried to distract herself by thinking of the satisfactory ways in which she could get rid of the bike. Simply leaving it on a sidewalk had no real payback; she wanted to do something that brought revenge, and closure. She wanted to shoot it. No pistol, so that was out. She wanted to set fire to it. She wanted to take a hammer and beat it to tiny little pieces. Both of those were viable options, because she could buy gasoline and matches or she could buy a hammer. Which one would be better, and less likely to get her arrested as being a danger to herself and others? The hammer, probably. People tended to notice fires, even small ones.

Traffic was light. Several cars passed her, but minutes would go by without anyone in sight. Up ahead she saw a three-way intersection, with a service station set square ahead. The sign for the road she was following indicated she should take the left. Oh, yeah, she remembered seeing a kind of dog-leg turn on the map; the road should be turning back to the right within a mile of the intersection.

But that service station was the most welcome sight she’d seen in a while. Her thigh muscles were killing her. She wanted some aspirin, a bottle of cold water, a protein bar, and she wanted to pee. Pee first, in fact.