by Jodie Bailey
“Three months ago, you broke the rules when you ran off on your own without protection on some half-baked rescue mission, all while you knew Meyer was out to find you.”
“And?”
“And you’re still trying to think of a way to get to Layla.” When her shoulders dropped, he acted as though he had more to say but seemed to change gears. “This isn’t something to be flippant about. Trust me enough to help you and Layla. Trust me enough to keep you safe. WITSEC hasn’t failed you so far, even if you did go off the radar on us.”
He had no idea what she’d been through, no idea why she’d made the decisions she had and why she’d continue to make those same decisions. Deputy Marshal Samuel Maldonado had no right to judge her. “You haven’t failed me? Aren’t we running away from your very safe super-secret headquarters because someone breached your data system?”
He winced and was wise enough not to reply.
“I can take care of myself.”
“What would you have done if my team and I hadn’t been there today? Hit that dude with your monster attitude?”
Wow. Okay then. So he was a bigger jerk than she’d initially thought. Apparently, kissing him had been an even bigger mistake than she’d realized. “I’d have...” Probably lost my life. The fight in Amy died. If he hadn’t arrived at the school, she’d be dead. There was no way around it. “You’re right.”
His eyebrows rose. “Wow. Wasn’t expecting that.”
“Well then, here’s another surprise. I’m sorry.” She was. She’d let her fear at the situation and disappointment at his rejection burn into anger and unleashed her out-of-control emotions on him. He didn’t deserve it. He was doing his job and doing it well.
“Thank you.” At least he accepted her apology with some grace.
He was right about something else too—not that she was ready to tell him. He was the one thing she had going for her. The only choice she had in the middle of this dark, terrifying night was to trust the man determined to be her knight in shining armor.
No one had ever wanted to be her rescuer.
It felt right. She wrapped her arms around her stomach. Right was something she shouldn’t feel, especially not about a man who was only interested in rescuing her because it was how he earned his paycheck, no matter that he’d kissed her only an hour or so earlier.
His demeanor after had said everything she needed to know. Amy was a box to check off. Nothing more. She’d do well to remember her place in his life. “How far is this safe house?”
“You let me handle the driving. Trust me and try to relax.”
They rode in silence and had wound down into a valley before Amy cracked. She couldn’t bear the stillness any longer. “You used to be a soldier?” The question came out of nowhere, though the thought had tweaked the back of her mind earlier. There was the mention of knowing the Arghandab Valley. The way he’d walked the road, watching. Something about his measured movements, the slight swagger, the way he held his posture was entirely too familiar. The army trained a certain something into its men and women, a something that set them apart from civilians. She’d seen it in El Paso in the guys stationed at Fort Bliss. She’d seen it in Noah during the brief time they’d had together before he was killed.
A muscle ticked in Sam’s jaw, barely visible in the faint bluish light from the dash, but the movement was there nonetheless. “I was.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
Now I’m not. The words reached across the space between them and wrapped around her heart, finding a companion in her own brokenness. Now I’m not.
Amy was no longer a lot of things. No longer a personal trainer working her way through college and a doctorate in sports medicine. No longer a long list of past accomplishments. No longer a twin sister.
And as of this afternoon, no longer an adjunct professor. No longer a friend to the small circle of companions she’d had in Georgia. No longer Amy Brady. No longer Amy Naylor.
Ever since the federal marshals had packed her up and moved her out of El Paso, faked her death and dropped a new identity over her like an ill-fitting pair of hand-me-down blue jeans, she’d had no idea who she was, where she fit in or what was even reality. If she wasn’t Amy Brady, who was she? What made Amy Naylor tick? Now, she was about to go through the whole process again. It was more than one person could handle. “I feel that right along with you,” she muttered as Sam slowed the truck and turned onto a bumpy dirt road that ought to scare the horror movie lover in her right into a heart attack.
As a small cabin came into view in the headlights, Amy turned toward Sam. “Hey, thank you for this. I don’t know what—”
The driver’s side mirror shattered. Sam slammed the truck to a halt as the echo of a gunshot cracked across the clearing.
* * *
“Get down!” Sam shifted the truck into Reverse, then reached over and shoved the back of Amy’s head toward her knees. There was no way the truck’s doors would stop a heavy-duty bullet if it found its way between the mechanisms inside, but thin sheet metal was a whole lot safer than glass windows.
Amy said nothing, simply obeyed as she dug her head between her knees.
Sam hoped she was praying. Pressing the gas almost to the floor, he hung a J-turn, the truck’s tires spinning for traction on a thick bed of leaves. As the front end swung around, another gunshot cracked and a bullet popped against metal. Whoever was firing wasn’t a sharpshooter, but they only needed one good shot to make his night a whole lot worse.
Sam shifted into Drive and strained with the truck as it hesitated to move. Another gunshot, another thwack, this one louder, harsher. A sharp burn bit into the back of Sam’s left leg. Swallowing the cry that wanted to escape, he prayed for forward motion as the truck’s bed fishtailed before it gained traction. They shot forward way too fast, bouncing along the rutted drive toward the road. “You okay?” If the bullet that had clipped him had hit Amy...
“Fine.” Her voice rattled with the jolt as the truck bottomed out in a rut. “You?”
“Fine. Stay down until I know we’re clear.” His relief at Amy’s safety was short-lived. He had to put distance between them and the cabin fast, before the shooter could pursue.
The truck careened onto the road, engine screaming as Sam pushed it to its limits, headed north and deeper into the mountainside forest.
It was hopefully the last direction the shooter would expect them to be heading. Help was behind them, toward Atlanta. In front of them? Sam scrolled through possibilities. They were slim. He’d only used this safe house one other time, with Devin Wallace, so either their safe houses were compromised or someone knew where Sam had been headed.
Without his team, Sam was on his own. This wasn’t his wheelhouse. He didn’t do long-term protection details, not since Wallace. No one was ever in his care long enough for Sam to lose them.
This situation called for an entirely different kind of plan, but there were too many things vying for attention in his brain, and they all circled back to one undeniable question.
Who was behind this? The Marshals Service prided itself on the integrity and skill of its people, especially in WITSEC and particularly on elite teams like Sam’s. No one in the program who’d followed the rules had ever been harmed. The idea that there was a mole in WITSEC was ludicrous. This had to be from the outside, from the hack of Edgecombe’s laptop.
He checked the rearview and saw no lights behind them. In darkness this deep, following them without headlights would be suicide. For the moment, they were clear. “You can sit up. I’d hate for you to get car sick.”
Amy eased upright, her face pale in the dim light.
Lord, please don’t let her panic again. They couldn’t stop. It was too risky. He had to get her off the road, somewhere safe where they could regroup and he could make a plan that didn’t involve constant
change on the fly. He reached down and felt his calf, where the bullet had grazed. His jeans were intact, which meant the bullet hadn’t drawn blood. “You okay?”
“If you’re asking if I was hit, I’m fine. Whether or not I’m okay is up for debate.”
“You’ll feel better after I find you a safe place to rest.” With events piling up, there was no way Amy could hold it together for long. Sam needed rest as well if he was going to keep going solo.
“I can’t remember the last time I rested.”
Sam could relate. She was talking about much more than the past day. Her life had been a whirlwind for three years, looking over her shoulder and wondering when the hit would come.
His life had been a series of bad choices and mistakes that got other people hurt. The fact he hadn’t lost a witness since Devin Wallace had to be a fluke.
“Sam?”
He jerked into the present, the hum of the tires and the tension radiating off Amy snapping his thoughts into clarity. Her voice was stretched thin, as though she fought for breath. Her fingers dug into the seat.
He knew that feeling as well. She was riding the edge of another panic attack.
Sam reached across and lifted her hand from the seat. He wrapped his fingers around hers and held on. Human contact. Amy needed to know she wasn’t alone. He was here for her. “What can I do to help?”
“Talk to me. About anything. About...” She pulled in a shuddering breath. “About you.”
Sam looked away from her and out the windshield. He’d almost missed a bend in the road. See? He wasn’t the one who should be protecting her. Someone who wouldn’t get distracted by whatever current ran between them should be in the driver’s seat.
But there was no other option. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’ll tell but make it interesting.” She straightened, turning her hand so her fingers laced with his. “Are you married?”
Sam snorted. “Why? You interested?” Keep it light, Maldonado. Although he should have kicked himself for the joke. It sounded as though he were making light of their earlier kiss. And it certainly hadn’t been light to him.
“No.” She tilted her head, oblivious to his disappointment at the quickness of her answer. “Seems like a good story.”
“I’m not married.”
“You’re not? Or you tell people that because your job is intense, and you don’t want people knowing about your family?”
Normally, he’d fall back on a cover. He already had a backstory ready so he wouldn’t have to share personal information. Tonight, his brain was too fried, and Amy was too...Amy. He opened his mouth and the truth poured out. “I’m not married anymore.”
“You used to be?”
“When I was in the army. It was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
Sam stared out the windshield, the two-lane mountain road passing through a series of turns as they leveled out into a valley. He’d only talked to one other person about Lindsay.
He’d never told anyone he’d suffered with panic attacks... At least, not until he’d told Amy tonight.
It really didn’t matter what he said. Soon, he’d pass her over to a team that would oversee her relocation and he’d never see her again. The pressure to speak built in his chest. It would be a release to tell someone the truth. “Let’s just say Lindsay’s strength wasn’t being faithful.”
Amy sucked air between her teeth. She squeezed his fingers, then relaxed her hold. It seemed she’d forgotten she was touching him at all.
That was okay with Sam. It was pretty rare he had human contact, and hers was different. Somehow, it seemed to make the pain that usually came with speaking Lindsay’s name a little less sharp. “In the army, I was on a team that was gone more than it was home, and she tended to use my time away to do her own thing.”
“That was a seminice way to say a very ugly thing.”
Sam kneaded the steering wheel. “Maybe.”
“You knew?”
His jaw clinched. Extracting his hand from Amy’s, Sam moved it to his knee. This was why he never talked about the implosion of his marriage. In the end, he looked foolish, and the truth about his emotional inadequacies was revealed.
He hadn’t been enough for his wife. Over and over, she’d accused him of being emotionless. Over and over, he’d refused to change. He’d told himself she didn’t understand the stresses of being a soldier in a post-9/11 world. She didn’t understand his need to hide inside himself or to go out with his team in order to forget.
None of his actions would excuse hers, but he’d provided the reasons she’d needed to stray. He’d failed to be there for her, therefore, his marriage had failed. Not only that, but he’d been the idiot who kept coming home to her, even after he knew what she’d done.
It had taken the divorce papers to shock him into reality and to knock the bottle out of his hand. He hadn’t touched anything stronger than root beer since the day the judge signed off. It was too little, too late. So Sam had left the military and joined the US Marshals, determined to save others when he couldn’t save himself.
Even there, he’d failed.
“I can practically read your mind from here.” Amy leaned against the door so she could turn toward him. “You blame yourself.”
Sam concentrated on a series of S-curves. He’d said too much. She seemed to have relaxed and eased away from the ledge of fear, so they could change the subject any time.
“You shouldn’t,” she said.
“No? You were there? You know all of the thoughts in my head?” Who was she to tell him how to feel, who he was? He was a joke. A nobody. A monumental failure at even the most basic relationships. “I kept taking her back.”
“She was your touchstone, the best chance you had at stability in a world out of control. If you were on a team, I’m guessing you served with Special Forces or something deeper. Your job was intense. You saw things, maybe even did things, that kept you awake at night. You needed the dream of her. You needed to believe this time would be different. When you were slogging through garbage overseas, the dream of a picket-fence life was the thing that kept you going.”
The woman sounded like a psychology textbook. Wait a second... Sam winced. He was a triple idiot. “This is what I get for telling my secrets to a psychology minor.”
“You should have known better.” She toyed with the hem of her shirt, pulling it between her fingers, seeming to lose some of her confidence. “Am I right?”
Sam pulled his eyes from her and back to the road for the hundredth time. He had to stop letting her distract him. Lights softened the horizon, and he aimed the truck toward them.
Was she right? He’d never thought of it that way. He’d always assumed he was the sap, the punch line to Lindsay’s jokes, even if his dismissal of her emotions was terrible. “I don’t know. When you put it that way, you make it sound like I used her.”
“No, you had an expectation. It was probably born out of your childhood. Either your parents had an ideal marriage and you were striving for the same, or your home life was a wreck and you were trying to do the opposite of...” She trailed off and turned in the seat, facing out the windshield. “Never mind. None of this is my business, and I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t have to apologize. She’d given him a release he hadn’t realized he needed. He’d popped the cork on his memories, had told someone the truth and the pain had eased into a dull ache. “Don’t say you’re sorry. I chose to talk about it.” Although he was stopping the conversation now. Delving into his childhood wasn’t a trip he was willing to take. Besides, this was supposed to be about Amy and backing her away from another panic attack. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
Sam exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding
as he turned onto an interstate and hopefully toward a hotel. Thankfully, his go-bag held a prepaid card that would get them whatever they needed. Right now, that big need was rest, though he doubted sleep would come to either of them as long as a killer was on their trail.
TEN
With her back to the mirror in the hotel’s bathroom, Amy stretched out her arm and examined the material of her royal blue button-down shirt. There was dirt on the arm, probably from where she’d slid down the side of Sam’s car earlier.
Too bad. It was her favorite shirt, one she’d bought not long after she’d become Amy Naylor. In her old life, she’d have never worn something so dressy, would have lived in athletic clothes and polos. Yet another difference between her real self and this dressed-up role she played.
This morning, when she’d chosen this shirt from her closet in preparation for yet another day in her WITSEC-created career as a biology professor, felt like a lifetime ago.
In a way, it probably was, since the life she’d lived and the person she’d been when she pulled this shirt from the hanger this morning no longer existed.
She wrinkled her nose and finger-combed her blond hair, avoiding the steam-covered mirror. If she could help it, she kept away from mirrors as much as possible. The eyes that looked back knew too many things about her, things she wished they didn’t know. The guilt always rushed in doubly hard when she had to look herself in the eye, so she typically gave her reflection a cursory glance to make sure her hair was in place, her makeup wasn’t a mess and her clothes were hanging right. She never lingered.
Amy brushed dirt off the hip of her black pants, then gave up. They were going to stay dirty. It had probably been kind of pointless to take a shower since she’d had to climb into the same clothes she’d been wearing, but the hot water had eased some of the aches in her body and brought a quiet to her brain that might let her catch a nap before a nightmare shoved her into reality.
Or before she remembered Sam’s kiss again. For one brief moment, she’d felt as though she knew who she was.