True Shot (4 page)

“So you’re on the run. This Flinn wouldn’t happen to be a U.S. marshal, would he?”

“I’m not a fugitive, and there’s no one-armed man.”

He smiled at the nod to
The Fugitive
. Dangerous and mistrustful, but she still had a sense of humor. That made her considerably less threatening. “I have a T-shirt I can spare,” he said as he got to his feet.

Before he could turn away, she asked, “Alex is really okay? After being shot, I mean.”

Her voice, low and worried, bore no resemblance to the commands she’d issued earlier. So the woman had a soft spot for her kid sister. He could relate to that.

He gave her a reassuring nod. “She had a rough time, but she pulled through it.” He didn’t think Samantha had the strength at the moment to hear about the serial killer who’d kidnapped Alex and almost killed her. Later, maybe. For now, he’d keep the mood light. “She’s in love now. Kind of sickening, really.”

“Sickening?”

“You know. Puppy-dog eyes. Cute nicknames. Holding hands every second of the day. Goofy shit like that.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t know.”

His gut tightened as her slight, weary smile faded to a battle-worn hardness that looked an awful lot like resignation. The visible shiver that followed snapped him out of the moment. “Okay, well, I’ll get you that shirt.”

As he rummaged through his duffel by the front door, he heard her moving around behind him. He turned, black T-shirt dangling from one hand, to find her on her feet, uninjured shoulder braced against the door. Apparently she didn’t trust him enough to let him out of her sight.

He held up the shirt. “Think you can handle getting it on or do you want some help?”

“I can handle it.”

But she didn’t reach out to take it, as though she feared leaving the support of the door. He angled his head toward the bedroom behind her. “Put it on the bed?”

She nodded. “The clothes on the floor, too.”

He bent to scoop up the bundle. “I hope you don’t plan to try to put any of this wet stuff on. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, and shifted to give him room to pass, pressing back against the door a bit too defensively.

“Jesus, lady, I don’t have cooties.” But when he deposited the T-shirt on the bed and the wet clothes on the bedside table, his annoyance vanished. Blood spotted the white sheets.

He faced her and paused, struck by her bone-white complexion. She’d started to shiver harder, the circles under her eyes more prominent than before. Sheer will alone seemed to keep her upright, yet she watched him with such wary eyes that it saddened him. It must suck to live with so much distrust.

“I should check your shoulder.”

Her features softened, as though his concern touched her. But the softness quickly hardened again, and she shook her head. “It’s fine.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, you know. You can trust me.”

Tears filled her eyes, making their blue a stark contrast to the black of her hair. Before anything could overflow, she said, “You should go.”

“Go? Oh, you mean into the other room so you can change.” He walked out into the hall. “You’re probably hungry. I’ve got some groceries out in the truck—”

“I mean go, as in leave. We can’t both stay here.”

“Like I said, the road’s washed out. Otherwise we’d be on our way to the ER. And, frankly, you shouldn’t be alone in your condition.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you’re an ace at that normally, but right now you could pass out and hurt yourself.”

She studied him for a long moment. “There’s a motel in Lake Avalon that advertises the fact that James Dean slept there. I can’t remember the name of it.”

Yeah, right. “I thought I passed the test.”

“My sister’s names and ages are in my personnel file.”

“So if I’m the bad guy, why aren’t I killing you?”

“Maybe Flinn wants me alive. Maybe I was shot by accident.”

“Wants you for what?”

She backed away, into the bedroom, one hand holding on to the door. “When I’m done changing, I want you gone.”

He stepped forward, prepared to protest, but she closed the door in his face. The lock engaged before he could react. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he called. “What if you need help?”

No answer.

Mac sighed. “It’s the Royal Palm Inn, by the way. The motel where James Dean slept. And you’re nuts if you think I’m going back out in this weather, especially with the waterfall where the road used to be.”

No answer.

Either she was ignoring him, or she’d already passed out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
am made it to the bed before her knees buckled. She sank down on the edge, her head spinning and her shoulder throbbing. Uncontrollable chills made every tight muscle ache.

She couldn’t stay here, not with a man she didn’t trust. She had no idea what Flinn was up to, or even where he’d been when Zoe had knocked on her door. Mac Hunter could be a clever operative sent to keep her off-balance, to make her feel safe until Flinn arrived. An unlikely scenario, but she hadn’t become one of N3’s top operatives by taking chances.

It was possible that Mac Hunter really was a friend of her sisters. He knew the Royal Palm Inn, after all. And he certainly behaved nonthreatening enough, despite the strength in the lean lines of his body. When he’d turned his back on her, she’d noticed the ripple of muscles beneath his T-shirt, signs of regular, hard workouts. And those arresting greenish brown eyes, so intense when they studied her, seemed to peer right into her soul.

Stop, she thought. Striking eye color and a hunky build had nothing to do with a man’s objectives. He might act harmless, but he wasn’t, especially when she could barely keep herself on her feet. Bottom line: If he was an operative, she was screwed. If he was a civilian,
he
was screwed. Flinn would have him killed in an instant if he thought N3 had been compromised. For Mac Hunter’s sake, as much as for her own, one of them had to get the hell out of this cabin.

Easing the quilt off her shoulder, she craned her neck to see the blood-soaked bandage so neatly taped to it. He’d clearly done nothing to pack the wound to keep her from losing more blood. Sloppy field triage . . . and more evidence that he wasn’t a highly trained covert operative.

Determined, and annoyed with herself for wasting precious time, she dropped the quilt. Gritting her teeth against any involuntary groaning, she pushed herself to her feet. Simple plan: Get dressed and get out. Where she’d go then, she had no idea.

She picked up the black T-shirt and shook it out, noting it smelled of the fabric softener she’d expected when she’d first entered the cabin. A wave of memories washed over her: pillow fights with her sisters and getting whapped full in the face with the scent she associated most with home. Her throat started to ache with the effort of holding the emotion back. Home. It had been so very long. And Charlie and Alex . . . she hadn’t laughed in years, not like she had with them.

Come on, Sam. Keep it together. You’ve got to keep it together.

But exhaustion and blood loss had weakened her defenses. And grief . . . God, Zoe.

“You okay in there?”

She spun toward the door and regretted the fast motion as the room whirled. Had he been standing at the door, listening?

She braced against the side of the bed. “I’m fine,” she said, surprised at the dry croak, then repeated it in a firmer voice. “I’m fine.”

She listened for footsteps to indicate he’d walked away but heard only silence. She imagined him on the other side of the door, unruly dark hair falling over his forehead and the shadow of beard darkening his jaw. “Trust me,” he’d said. The key words. Samantha Trudeau always seemed to trust the wrong people. Not anymore, even when the man in question exuded honorable energy as intensely as sex appeal.

She worked the sleeve of the T-shirt up her injured arm then poked her head through the neck and slid her other arm through the remaining sleeve. As she pulled the hem down over her breasts, she released a shaky breath. The simple effort had drained her, leaving her limbs leaden, but at least she felt less vulnerable.

Next, she dragged her sodden jeans off the table by the bed as cold perspiration gathered along her top lip and at her hairline. She couldn’t stop shivering and wanted nothing more than to sink onto the bed and curl into a ball.

You can do this, Sam. You’re
trained
to suck it up and get the job done.

And the job right now was to get dressed and get out.

She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, and stood up.

 

Mac dumped her damp bag onto the sofa, telling himself he had every right to go through her things. He had to protect himself, and she wasn’t providing the answers he needed. Besides, he’d already seen her naked. Looking through her purse wasn’t nearly as intimate—or interesting.

The usual contents of a woman’s bag scattered across the worn upholstery. Brush, compact, lipstick, keys, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, sunglasses, tampons, small bottle of Tylenol. One last shake, and a gun bounced onto the cushion, black and ominous.

His heart hiccupped.

The girl had a gun.

Not girl. Woman. Who’d obviously participated in some kind of combat, considering her scars . . . and the fact that she’d been shot.

He remembered the fake ID identifying her as Claire Hogan, research assistant for a biomedical facility where a key scientist had vanished. There’d been speculation in the Lake Avalon newsroom that a right-wing zealot had probably kidnapped the guy to keep him from conducting research with embryos. News of the disappearance had died down after a series of tornadoes had ripped through the Midwest. Media preferred disaster news with shocking photos over a missing scientist, but that didn’t mean the feds had stopped looking.

So maybe Samantha Trudeau was law enforcement, sent to Biomedical Research Corp. undercover to investigate.

Sure, that made sense. FBI, probably.

That didn’t stop him from thinking it’d be a good idea to hide the gun. Last thing he wanted to do tonight was find himself staring down its barrel because he refused to hit the road like she’d ordered.

Then he heard a soft
thump
in the other room, as though a body had hit the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered and jogged over to the bedroom door. “You okay?” he called. “Samantha?”

He tried the knob just to be sure, and, yep, it was locked.

He pounded a fist against the wood. “Samantha? Hello? Sam?”

No answer.

Great. Just great.

He ran into the kitchen and jerked open one drawer after another until he found a screwdriver and a hammer. Back at the door, he tapped the flat edge of the screwdriver between the door and its frame next to the knob and hoped like hell something as simple as this would work on the low-tech lock.

The lock popped, and the door swung open. Mac didn’t have time to feel triumph, because she was indeed on the floor, on her back with one hand resting on her stomach and the other flung out next to her, her head rolled to the side and hair obscuring her face. He knelt beside her and put his fingers to the base of her throat. The strong thump of her pulse calmed his own racing heart.

“Good, that’s good. You’re not thinking about expiring on me anytime soon. So let’s get you back into bed, okay?”

He gathered her into his arms and settled her on the sheets. He started to draw the quilt over her still form when he noticed the darkening patch on the shoulder of the black T-shirt. “Damn, I told you you were bleeding again.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and, grasping the hem of the shirt, drew it up so he could see the red-soaked bandage. His heart double-timed at a sight he couldn’t possibly ignore. One full breast, a perfect, pale handful tipped with a perfect circle of pink. Right next to it, its perfect twin. Perfection everywhere.

Her nipples pebbled as if aware they were being watched. He suddenly didn’t need crackling flames in the fireplace to get warm.

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. “Don’t be a dork, dork. Finish what you started before she bleeds to death.”

He retrieved the first-aid supplies from the other room, then quickly stripped away the bloody shirt. He replaced the bandage with a bulkier wad of gauze and did the same to the exit wound, beyond relieved when he could cover all that smooth, enticing skin with a clean T-shirt and a pair of his boxers.

In the living room, he fought the urge to sink down onto the sofa and breathe out a long sigh. Instead, he had to find a decent hiding place for a gun. Then he had to figure out what to do about the rapidly growing chill in the cabin.

 

About three hundred feet from the tiny, dark cabin that protected the key to his dreams from the ice-cold rain, Flinn Ford huddled with Deke and Tom, who carried enough firepower to stage a small coup.

“We’ll move in at first light,” Flinn said. “I want radio silence, and I want everyone behind me. I’m the only one who approaches her.”

“And the male?” Deke asked.

“Take him into custody. I need to know who he is, what she’s told him. No chatter in front of him, and blindfold him before you put him in the SUV. Got it?”

The other two men gave curt nods.

“Last thing: Don’t underestimate her. She’s unpredictable. She’s smart. And she’s fast. If she makes a run for it, shoot to maim, not to kill. I need her alive, at least temporarily.”

Two stony faces showed no emotion, and Flinn had to clench his jaw against a bitter scowl. Heartless bastards didn’t know what it meant to care about a woman. And how much it ripped you in two when you had to hurt her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

H
e snuggled up to her naked back, burying his nose in silky, rain-washed hair as he looped his arm around her waist and gently drew her back against his front. Keeping warm had never been so . . . enticing.