by Joyce Lamb
On his knees behind Flinn’s chair, he wrapped the twine around the man’s wrists several times, oddly indifferent when the bastard squirmed and complained, “Too tight.”
“Bummer,” Mac mumbled and wrapped it tighter, surprised, and a bit ashamed, at his own malicious satisfaction when the guy gave a pained grunt. That’s what you get for messing with my girl. The thought made him go still for a moment. My girl? Where had that come from? Jesus, one erotic dream and—
“His legs, too,” she said. “And his weapon . . . it’s in a holster under his left arm . . . get it and his cell phone and get rid of them.”
“He’s got a gun?” Mac figured he should be embarrassed at the way his voice squeaked at the end. But, Jesus, the guy had a gun and hadn’t even bothered to draw it? That took some pretty big balls to think he didn’t need a weapon to take on this woman. Or perhaps Dr. Evil was delusional.
A few minutes later, Mac sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork. “Not bad for a guy who can’t follow a map.”
When he got no response, he looked around and saw that Samantha had silently slipped away.
“She’s going to get you killed,” Flinn said.
“And what were you going to do? Serve me brunch?” Mac got up and walked around the chair so he could pat down the left side of the man’s jacket until he felt the gun. He had to fumble to release the snap securing it in place. Sheesh, the douche bag hadn’t even prepared in advance for the possibility of pulling his weapon. Mac finally managed to remove the gun from its holster. He carefully placed it in the sink, well out of its owner’s reach, then began going through the pockets of the fuming, red-faced man in search of his phone.
“We can make a deal,” Flinn said. “Anything you want.”
“A million dollars.”
Flinn was so smooth he didn’t even roll his eyes. “That could be arranged.”
Mac snorted as he pulled the phone from the guy’s inner jacket pocket. “Right. I’d have a tough time spending it while I’m dead. Amazon.com doesn’t ship to the afterlife.”
“I give you my word that no harm would come to you.”
Mac bent so that he was eye to eye with the soulless bastard. “Yeah? You ever give that word to Samantha?”
Cold, dead eyes stared back at him. “You have no idea what you’re doing. Whatever she’s told you, it’s a lie.”
“Watch it. Your pants are on fire.” Mac dropped the phone on the floor and stomped it into pieces.
“You’re a foolish man,” Flinn said.
“Better foolish than tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere.” He moved to the drawer that held dish towels and used one to gag Dr. Evil.
Then he tried not to shudder as he glanced at the dead men on the floor near the door. Two precise shots. She hadn’t even hesitated.
God, he hoped he hadn’t chosen the wrong side.
CHAPTER NINE
In the bedroom, Sam set aside her SIG and used one hand to shake out her damp jeans, her other arm pressed against her side to limit the jostling that sent sharp, head-spinning pain through her shoulder.
How had Flinn found her so quickly? She knew that no one had followed her out of DC. She’d even ditched her car and work cell phone to prevent GPS from pinpointing her location. She’d never mentioned this cabin to anyone she worked with. Even if she had, they couldn’t have found it easily because its ownership was linked to the Lake Avalon newspaper rather than the Trudeau family.
Yet Flinn had found her within a day. He had to have some way. God, had he tracked her by her personal cell phone? How could he even know she had it? She’d been so careful, almost OCD about it. She’d obviously underestimated him, underestimated his paranoia, his lack of trust. And if he knew about that secret phone, that most likely meant he’d been keeping much closer tabs on her than she’d ever thought, and—no, wait. Ah, crap. Of course.
The transmitter.
It had been so many years since the implantation . . . Still, she should have remembered. Would have, probably, if she hadn’t been so upset about Zoe. Not to mention bleeding and running for her life.
How the hell was she supposed to get the damn thing out by herself?
Little white spots began to jiggle in front of her eyes, and she sat on the edge of the bed. She was so screwed.
“You need some help?”
She jerked her head up and immediately had to suppress the surge of nausea. She was worse than screwed. And she’d managed to get this guy, this nice, good guy, screwed as well.
“I’m—”
“Fine. Yeah, I know. So what’s the plan?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Plan?”
“Yeah. I figure we’re hitting the road in the next, oh, thirty seconds or so?”
“We?”
He cocked his head. “You’re not strong enough to get out of here on your own, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving you the keys to my car. Even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to drive it over the bumpy terrain out of here without passing out and hitting a tree. Like it or not, you need me.”
“I don’t need anyone.” She pushed to her feet, the wet jeans grasped in one hand, intending to get dressed and get out. She’d figure out what to do about the transmitter later.
It took her only a few seconds to realize that getting dressed one-handed didn’t work, especially when the clothing was wet denim. She sank back onto the bed. Defeat loomed like a huge black shroud above her head, threatening to drop down and suffocate her.
Mac pivoted and walked out of the bedroom, and she raised her head to watch him go. Good. Common sense had finally kicked in. If he was smart, he’d be in his car and out of there within a matter of minutes.
But then he came back, a pair of black drawstring pants in one hand. “You’ll swim in these, but they’re dry, and the waist is adjustable.”
Without waiting for a response, he eased the jeans away from her and dropped them on the floor. “You’ll need to stand up.”
She reluctantly did as he said, and he stepped behind her, reaching his arms around her so he could position the pants at her front. All she had to do was step into them, but indecision paralyzed her. He needed to go. He needed to leave her here and go now.
But then she’d have no means of escape.
Behind her, Mac silently waited.
She sifted through her options. She could knock him cold and take his car. Which would leave him here with Flinn, who would kill him to keep him quiet. Bad idea. Really bad idea.
She could hike out while Mac drove in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between them as possible. Assuming she could walk more than a few hundred yards before the last of her strength deserted her.
Only one option remained: She could kill Flinn.
But no, God, she couldn’t. He was a federal agent. And she didn’t know what was going on. What if Zoe had jumped to the wrong conclusions?
Besides, could she even kill a bound, unarmed man, especially one she’d known for fourteen years—and, God help her, had felt affection for? Shooting Deke and Tom had been different. They’d have shot her dead after one gesture from their boss. Flinn, however, was tied to a chair.
Closing her eyes, she bit her bottom lip. She had no choice. She did need Mac. At least to get off the mountain. Once they reached civilization, she’d have him drop her at the first gas station or convenience store and send him on his way. With any luck at all, Flinn would never be able to identify him.
Resolved, she grasped Mac’s arm with her good hand to steady herself. She realized too late that she hadn’t braced for the skin-on-skin contact, and the empathic flash of his disbelief when she’d shot Deke and Tom raced through her. His horror reminded her of the first time she’d seen someone die violently. She remembered the pain on her father’s face, heard again the burble of his choked breathing as he’d bled to death in her arms. Two people had died before her eyes that day, one at her own hands.
“Hey.” Mac’s gentle nudge d
rew her out of the memory before it could drag her down. He joggled the drawstring pants, as though to say, Come on already.
Using his muscled arms for support, she stepped into the pants and helped him draw them up her legs, then watched as he deftly drew the drawstring snug and tied it. He had big hands, she noted. Tender hands. Chaste, too, because he’d done nothing more than secure the pants, not even brushing his fingers against her skin.
“See?” he said, his voice low near her ear. “I can be useful.”
She shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck and his strong, warm arms around her, fought the urge to drop her head back against his shoulder and let his strength support her. But, no, she couldn’t do that. He was already compromised, maybe too much for her to save him.
He was right, though. He could be useful.
“I need you to do something else for me,” she said.
He released her and took the few steps so that they faced each other. “Name it.”
She looked up into his hazel green eyes and wondered how he could be so giving when she’d dragged him into a situation that could very well get him killed. Was he for real?
He arched one dark brow, and she realized he was waiting for her request. “I need you to go to the kitchen and get the smallest, sharpest knife you can find.”
Deep trenches appeared in his forehead. “What for?”
“There’s a transmitter imbedded under the skin between my shoulder blades.”
The forehead creases smoothed as the blood drained from his face. “A what?”
“It’s broadcasting my location to my employer. That’s how Flinn found me so easily.”
“You’re telling me you’re LoJacked?”
“I need you to remove it.”
He raised his hands and backed away. “No way am I cutting into you.”
“You have to. I can’t reach it myself.”
“Then let’s just . . . let’s find an ER and have a doctor do it.”
“There isn’t time. When I leave here, it needs to be gone or he’ll follow. It has to come out now.”
“Forget it. I’m not doing it.”
He’d taken two steps toward the bedroom door before she grabbed his arm, her grip strong and desperate. “I’m dead if you don’t do this. Do you get that?”
He scrubbed his hands through his hair as he paced away. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Please,” she said softly.
He faced her, looking sick and torn, and she waited, keeping her gaze locked with his. She wasn’t above mustering a few tears if that’s what it took.
Shaking his head, he released a defeated sigh. “Fine. I’ll get the knife.”
Mac sat on the side of the bed, bent over a stretched-out, stomach-down Samantha Trudeau, the tip of the knife poised—and jittering—above a tiny scar at the base of her right shoulder blade. That’s where she said the transmitter had been injected beneath her skin fourteen years ago.
A transmitter. What kind of barbarians did this woman work for?
She had her head turned away from him, both arms wrapped around a pillow, her version, he supposed, of a bullet clasped between her teeth.
“So who is he? That guy in the other room . . . Dr. Evil.”
“Don’t talk. Just do it.”
“You want me to do this with a steady hand or not? Because at the moment it’s like I’ve got Parkinson’s. I have a feeling that the more I shake, the more it’s going to hurt.”
“He’s my boss,” she said, voice muffled in the pillow.
“I got the impression you don’t trust him.”
“We don’t have all day.”
“I’m getting there, okay? Just give me a minute.” He focused on willing his palsied hand to take a chill pill.
She turned her head to look up at him, her long, raven hair shifting against the pale skin of her neck. “You can do this.”
He snorted. “After all this time, you don’t know me at all. I’m not the guy people count on in a pinch.”
“You are now.”
Wincing, he dug in with the knife. She stiffened then buried her hiss in the pillow.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Blood welled around the tip of the blade, and he felt her skin under his bracing hand go clammy. “Almost there.” She didn’t need to know he had no idea what he was doing. “Just hang on.”
Where the hell was it? He didn’t even know what he was looking for.
“What does this transmitter look like? Will I know it—”
He broke off when what looked like a tiny piece of translucent cartilage oozed out on a well of blood. He pinched it between two fingers and held it up. Had to be it. It was too perfectly round and smooth to be anything but something that didn’t belong.
“Got it,” he said on a relieved sigh.
Samantha didn’t respond, and he could tell from how lax her body had become that she’d passed out. He smoothed his palm over the satin skin of her middle back to soothe her, marveling at the shift in his gut. He was such an idiot.
Then he got to work cleaning and redressing the bullet wounds and the new cut. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, finally, and the bullet wounds didn’t look like they were getting infected. Small favors.
He’d just gotten her turned over and into one of his dark blue flannel shirts when her gray blue eyes fluttered open.
“Hey.” He snagged the tiny transmitter he’d set on the bedside table. “Lookee what I found.”
A weak, shuddery breath passed over her lips before she met his gaze. Her eyes slid briefly out of focus. “That’s not it.”
His stomach plunged to his knees. “What?”
“Kidding.”
“You’re teasing me? Seriously?”
She grasped his arm with a grimace. “Help me up.”
Fearing she’d start bleeding again if she exerted herself too much, he assisted her into a sitting position. He sat beside her while she rested, his hand braced at her lower back to help keep her upright.
“I need to question him,” she said.
“I don’t imagine he’s going to be all that cooperative—” He broke off at her sideways glance. Of course. She had a gun. And a kitchen full of knives. And warrior training. She had ways of making him talk.
“Let’s get you buttoned up first.”
She braced her right hand on his shoulder and said nothing as he fumbled with the fasteners on the flannel shirt. He’d never buttoned a shirt that he wasn’t wearing, and the angle was all wrong, not like when he’d stood behind her and secured the drawstring of her pants. It didn’t help that just scant inches from the tips of his fingers were a pair of the most perfect breasts he’d ever seen. His heart thundered in his ears, and he was overly conscious of the soft, cool feel of her breath against his hands as she watched his progress. The closer his fingers got to her breasts, the tighter she gripped his shoulder. Interesting.
He needed to talk to distract himself from the intimacy of the moment. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on here.”
“I can’t.”
“If you did, you’d have to kill me?”
“Something like that.”
“That guy out there . . . he is the bad guy, right?”
She raised her head and met his eyes straight on. “Yes.”
“And his friends? They would have used their rocket launchers to kill us?”
“They’re not rocket launchers. They’re SIG SG 550 assault rifles.”
“I know that . . . I mean, I know they aren’t rocket launchers. My point is that they’re just as scary as rocket launchers.”
“Depending on how they’re set to fire, they can tear you into just as many pieces.”
“Thank you for that graphic image. So answer the question.”
“They would have killed you.”
“And what about you?”
“Flinn has other plans for me.” Her gaze flicke
d away. “Otherwise, they would have blown us away without hesitation.”
Mac’s stomach did a queasy dance. He hated her world already, and he’d just been introduced. “When you’re done questioning him, are you going to kill him?”
Her lips tightened, and she deliberately refused to meet his eyes. “Go outside and get into your car. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER TEN
Am I part of the same science experiment as Zoe?”
Flinn looked back at her, unimpressed by the gun she pressed to the middle of his forehead. His skin still bore faint depressions from the dish towel Mac had used to tightly gag him, making him look as though he’d just awakened from having his face pressed into a wrinkly pillowcase.
“Who took you in when you hit rock bottom?” he asked. “You were going to prison. Who gave you a home? Fed you? Trained you?”
“You La Femme Nikita’d me for your own gain. You’ve used me for fourteen years. Experimented on me.”
“We’ve had a mutually beneficial relationship, Samantha.”
She had to fight the urge to put a bullet between his eyes. For years, she’d let him do whatever he wanted to her, in the name of making N3 the best team possible. Drug research. Psychic evaluations. Endurance tests. All for the greater good of N3 and its mission to protect the United States from the threats of do-badders the world over. For a long time, she felt she’d had no choice but to submit. Be a good soldier or go to prison. That was the deal, and she lived with it. But now a friend was dead. And it appeared her boss, a man she’d trusted despite his arrogance and flaws, had crossed the line with his scientific research.
She firmed her grip on the SIG. “Zoe said she was pregnant and that there was no way it was a natural conception. How did that happen? And why? What’s the plan?”
“Zoe’s confused, Samantha. You know her. She’s always been a drama queen.”
“Stop talking about her like you don’t know she’s dead and tell me why you impregnated her.”