True Shot (24 page)

“I already have a home.” And she wanted to go back.
So
bad. She missed Charlie’s sarcasm and Alex’s innocence. Missed Dad’s warm bear hugs and deep, reassuring voice. His strong sense of right and wrong. He wouldn’t have liked Ben Dillon. Not at all.

Those words smacked her in the forehead. Confessed? She hadn’t confessed. No way.
Had she?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

S
am woke to sun streaming in through the windshield. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she raised a hand and peered around. Mac wasn’t in the driver’s seat. The car sat in a parking area that faced an open, grassy lot. A Little League game appeared to be under way on a baseball diamond in the far corner of the fenced-in area.

The Accord’s windows were down, a light breeze blowing in while it shuffled the fronds of towering palm trees. She twisted in the seat to take stock of her surroundings and saw the parking lot belonged to a two-story, off-white Mediterranean-style building with large, arched windows.

The sound of a car horn bleated in the distance, and the excited shrieks of kids drew her gaze back to the ball game. Moms and dads watched the kids from the sidelines. One female spectator idly rolled a baby stroller back and forth while she cooed at the fussing baby inside.

Sam couldn’t imagine that kind of existence. Even though she’d forgotten 99 percent of her past, she knew instinctively that her life had nothing whatsoever to do with baby strollers and walks in the park.

Make that: She’d forgotten
98
percent of her past. She’d just remembered the part where Flinn Ford shrewdly hooked his talons into her and never planned to let go. And she’d been a naïve little idiot, too scared and too out of her league to know how to defend herself. Maybe she’d been that naïve little idiot her whole life.

Suddenly needing more air than what made it through the windows, she shoved open the car door and got out. She walked to a nearby bench and sat down, wondering where Mac was and why he’d left her alone and asleep. Someone so easily could have compromised her position. God, civilians could be so—

“Sam!”

She jerked her head up, startled at the sound of her name, then relieved to see Mac jogging toward her, a white plastic bag dangling from one hand. At first, she was struck by how incredibly good he looked. All that lean muscle filling out well-worn jeans and a black T-shirt, his dark hair disheveled in the breeze, his jaw shadowed with a rapidly darkening beard. His eyes were so warm, so kind—

Then she remembered their situation, and irritation quickly chased away her appreciation of his good looks. She rose to meet him. “Where were you?”

“Running a couple of errands. Didn’t you see my note?”

A note? For the love of Pete, were they in high school? “I didn’t see a note.”

“I left it on the dashboard for you.” He glanced back at the Accord, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Damn, the breeze must have blown it onto the floorboard. Sorry about that.”

He flashed his innocent, puppy-dog smile, an expression that sharply contrasted his ferocity when he’d slammed Arthur Baldwin up against the wall that morning.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Jacksonville, Florida. Oh, and I picked up some dinner.” He hoisted the bag. “Hope you like Mexican.” He took a quick glance around. “Maybe we can find a picnic table. Don’t know about you, but I’m sick of the car.” He spotted a table under a large jacaranda tree and gestured. “Over there okay?”

She nodded as she fell into step beside him. The breeze blew hair back from her face, and she could swear she smelled the salty scent of ocean water in the air.

He flashed her a sideways grin as he settled the plastic bag on the picnic table and started fishing through it. “I got us some chips and guacamole, too. The woman at the library—she’s the one who recommended the place—said the guac there is the best on the planet. Which might not be the most reliable endorsement, because the place is called Burrito Planet.”

Her dream about Flinn eased to the back of her mind. For now, she decided, she would share in Mac’s enthusiasm for the simple things in life, like guacamole and talking to strangers. “Do you strike up a conversation with everyone you meet?”

“Occupational hazard. It’s amazing what strangers will tell you when you show some interest.” He set two bottles of water on the table, then lined up four wrapped burritos, each the length of a paperback novel and as thick as his muscled forearm.

“We’ve got ground beef, chicken, grilled veggies and Bar-bacoa, which is shredded beef. What’ll you have?”

She couldn’t help but smile at how much the man loved his food. “Which do you want?”

“I’m a gentleman, which means you get to pick first. Or, you could try them all. You probably don’t remember what you like.”

“I’ll start with the chicken.”

“The Burrito Planet guy said that’s their best one.” He handed it over. “I’m opting for the ground beef. He said that one’s spicy enough to take the varnish off your chest.” He grinned. “I think English might be his third or fourth language.”

She laughed as she cracked open her bottle of water and took a long drink. It was so odd to have such an innocuous conversation, yet it felt so right. She just hoped that her unsettled stomach could handle what she was about to put in it.

Across from her, Mac chomped into his burrito and
mmm
’d deep in his throat, a low, sexy sound that had her body growling in response.

“What were you doing at the library?” she asked quickly before her head could road-trip down a path she wasn’t prepared to explore.

“I sent Charlie an e-mail.”

She stopped unwrapping her burrito. “You what?”

“Relax. We’re in Jacksonville, and we’re coming up on rush hour. Even if Ford’s people track us, we’ll be long gone by the time they get anywhere near the area.”

She didn’t relax, too tense from the anxiety of being on the run, not to mention the disconcerting flashbacks. The uncertainty of everything was getting to her. She hated constantly looking over her shoulder, not knowing who to trust or when Flinn and his muscle might bear down on them again. Most of all, she hated that being with her, helping her, put Mac in the line of fire. She wished he’d never gotten dragged into her mess. Yet, if he hadn’t, she knew exactly where she’d be right now: dead. And what if he ended up dead because of her?

“Sam, come on, I mean it. You need to relax. I was careful, I swear.”

“What did you say?” She tried to sound casual despite the fear that his good intentions had once again given away their location—or at least where they planned to be.

“I asked Charlie to bring Alex and their respective boy toys to meet us at a hotel in St. Pete.”

She smirked at his use of “boy toys.” She wouldn’t mind making
him
her boy toy . . . and, God, where had
that
come from? She picked up her burrito and hoped she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. “St. Pete?”

“St. Petersburg. Just south of Tampa, about a hundred miles or so north of Lake Avalon.”

“Right. I remember that now.”

“I told her to leave their cell phones and any navigation systems at home and make sure they’re not followed. I also suggested they borrow someone else’s car. Their boyfriends both have law enforcement backgrounds, so they’ll know how to get that done.”

“Flinn will be monitoring their e-mail accounts.”

“I figured as much, so I didn’t mention St. Pete or the name of the hotel.”

“Then how will Charlie know where to meet us?”

“I asked her to meet us at ‘that place that we went that time.’ When we were dating, we took a weekend away from Lake Avalon only once. She’ll know what I mean.”

She couldn’t stop the dubious arch of her brow. “How can you be sure?”

“We both love that movie
Broadcast News
from the late eighties. We didn’t understand it when it first came out, of course, because we were only, like, eight or so. But Charlie has the DVD, and we’ve watched it over and over, laughing our asses off because what it says about the sad state of the news business is still true, twentysomething years later.”

Sam smiled in spite of her anxiety. Sometimes the man talked in circles. Funny that that trait in anyone else would have driven her up the wall. But in Mac, she found it was . . . adorable.

“So, right, back to Charlie and the hotel. There’s a line in the movie, where Albert Brooks calls Holly Hunter and says, ‘Meet me at that place that we went that time.’ Or something like that. They’re such good friends that she immediately knows what he means. Charlie will get it, too.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make of his assertion of his and Charlie’s closeness. Jealousy seemed inappropriate, especially considering the unspoken rules between sisters: Thou shalt not date your sister’s ex-boyfriends. At the same time, she wondered what Charlie had been thinking when she’d let this man go. She couldn’t imagine a kinder, sweeter . . . hotter guy. And while she didn’t remember Charlie in all her 3-D personality and foibles, she did have the sense that her sister was no dummy.

“Sam?”

She blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

He reached across the table to cover her hand with his. “It’ll be okay. Trust me.”

She braced for the shock of memory, but other than a lightning flash of dizziness, nothing happened. Unless she counted the surge of warmth from his palm, the zing of adrenaline that pumped her heart faster, the urge to roll her hand under his and slide her fingers between his . . .

Mac jerked his hand back. “Oh, damn. Sorry. Are you—”

“Nothing happened.”

“Really? That’s great. Isn’t it?”

“From the standpoint of getting a headache, it is. From the standpoint of getting to relive something horrible that happened to you, it
really
is.” She gave him a smile that trembled some. She was such a wuss for a government spy. She hoped she wasn’t this weak on the job.

“Kind of weird, though, isn’t it?” He peered at her so intensely she started to flush. “You got nothing?”

“Maybe my system is settling down. It’s been so out of whack . . . I really don’t know how it works. It might be inconsistent. I might need to concentrate to make it happen. Or maybe because I’ve already tapped into your memories more than once, my ability’s acclimated to that.”

“That’d be handy. Even if that’s not the case, you’ve already tapped into the absolute worst thing to happen to me physically: the guy with the pipe wrench.” He straightened across from her, a wide smile sending his dimples into sharp relief. “Oh, hey. I got something for you at the library.”

He pulled a folded piece of white paper from his back pocket and handed it to her with a flourish, as if presenting her with a diamond ring on a silver platter.

Curious, and smiling at his anticipation—he could do such topsy-turvy things to her insides—she unfolded the paper. It was a printout from a newspaper archive.

“I found it at the Web site of
The State
. That’s the newspaper in Columbia, South Carolina.”

The headline from the article made her suck in her breath: “Former Governor’s Serial Killer Brother Slain in Prison.” The news story stated that Jake Baldwin, brother of Arthur Baldwin, had been found dead in his cell by prison guards. His cellmate had strangled him over a pack of cigarettes.

“You didn’t kill him,” Mac said. “When Artie said you killed his brother, he must have meant metaphorically. You most likely helped send him to prison, which then led to his death.”

She couldn’t bring herself to smile with relief. Because while she was relieved she hadn’t killed Jake Baldwin in cold blood, as she’d feared, she knew something Mac didn’t: According to her flashback with Flinn Ford, she’d killed another man—Robert Radnor. For revenge.

No matter which way she rolled the dice, they kept coming up killer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

H
unter has made contact with Charlie Trudeau in Lake Avalon.”

At Natalie’s excited voice, Flinn let loose a smile so wide his cheeks pushed his sunglasses up. “That’s excellent.”

“It’s written in a rough code, but they’re meeting somewhere that they’ve been together before. Hunter warned her to dump her cell and GPS and use a friend’s car.”