Secret Identity

by Paula Graves

  Heading east on Dewberry Road as the clerk had directed, Rick met his own gaze in the rearview mirror. Brown eyes stared back at him under dark, quirked brows.

  There’s a foreignness to you, too, Rick Cooper.

  He’d been away from home entirely too long.

  AMANDA SCRABBLED THROUGH the closest box, cursing herself for falling into willful complacency. There was nowhere safe in the world, not even Thurlow Gap, Tennessee. No paradise was safe from murderous rage.

  She should have prepared better for this moment from the second she set foot in this town.

  Her former life came with baggage, but stupidly, she’d shoved that baggage into a bunch of boxes stacked haphazardly on metal shelves in her basement and told herself that she was safe enough with two dead bolts on the front door and a cheap alarm system she’d installed herself.

  She’d thought the danger was over in this paradise of mountains and forests and friendly neighbors. Three years of mind-numbing normalcy had lulled her into a false sense of peace now shattered by a phone number on a matchbox and a single word spoken by a man she’d once thought she might love.

  She should have had a disaster kit handy. Forget her past with the CIA; she lived within fifty miles of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, for God’s sake. She should already have been stockpiling food and water and batteries.

  At least she had her savings. She’d driven to Maryville an hour ago and withdrawn all but a hundred dollars from the savings account. She had twelve grand in cash to work with. She could buy a lot of peanut butter and bottled water with money like that.

  Buying a brand-new identity would be pricier, but at least she knew how to make that happen. She just had to make it to a big-enough city.

  By four forty-five, she’d packed two duffel bags full of survival provisions, including two of her three handguns—the Walther P99 and the SIG Sauer P238—and nine boxes of ammo. Upstairs, her Smith & Wesson M&P 9 mm was already loaded, with an extra round in the chamber.

  She’d also packed a gym bag full of underwear, jeans, T-shirts and a denim jacket. All that was left now was packing a box of nonperishable foods and she’d be ready to go.

  To where, she wasn’t sure.

  She looped the canvas straps of the duffel bags over her arms, grunting at the weight as she started up the stairs. As she hauled the bags through the door into the kitchen, a high-pitched beeping sound started echoing through the house. It took a second to realize what it was.

  Someone had tripped her perimeter alarm.

  She dropped the bags on the kitchen floor and raced down the short hallway to her bedroom. A red light on the alarm system’s control panel was blinking with each beep.

  She hit the code and stopped the alarm from sounding before a call went out to the local police. Whatever happened next would have to happen without putting anyone else in danger, including the local law. The good old boys who wore the uniform of Thurlow Gap’s police department wouldn’t be prepared for what they’d find here.

  She grabbed her Smith & Wesson from the nightstand. The heft of it in her hand gave her a renewed sense of control, easing the rapid-fire cadence of her pulse. She crept down the hall to the front of the house and moved to one of the windows looking out on the shaded front yard. Sliding the curtain aside an inch, she peered out at her driveway but saw nothing.

  Still, something had tripped the perimeter. Might have been an animal.

  Might not.

  She took a couple of deep breaths to brace herself and scooted through the doorway into the kitchen to check out the side window. But when she peeked through a space in the curtains, all she saw was movement to her right, a flash of charcoal disappearing around the side of her house, heading toward the front.

  She started toward the front door, then froze when three loud raps rang through the silent house.

  An assassin who knocked first?

  She moved away from the door, her footfalls whisper-soft against the hardwood floor. It might be a ruse to bring her to the doorway. Even peering through the fish-eye security lens was too dangerous; any large-caliber ammunition would penetrate the wood door. Should’ve replaced it with a steel-reinforced one, she thought.

  Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. Too late now.

  Knocks sounded on the door again, louder this time. She backpedaled, old instincts kicking in. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a box of ammunition for the Smith & Wesson. Tucking the box in her waistband, she headed out the back door, hoping her visitor would keep knocking long enough for her to reach the woods behind her house. She could set up a defensive position there, her familiarity with the terrain an advantage.

  She had barely reached the carport, however, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the flagstone walk toward the corner of the house. She raced around the back of her car and crouched behind the front fender.

  The footsteps continued a moment, then fell silent. Amanda’s pulse thundered in her ears. She tightened her grip on the 9 mm and held her breath, waiting for his next move.

  “Tara?”

  The voice, deep and familiar, sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Sorry, it’s Amanda now, isn’t it?” Rick Cooper asked.

  She remained silent.

  “I know you’re out here. I can feel you.”

  Her stomach knotted, inconvenient tears stinging her eyes.

  His footsteps made a scraping sound on the concrete as he walked slowly toward her car. “I saw Alexander Quinn not two hours ago. Have you spoken with him?”

  “Stop there,” she commanded, pleased at the steadiness of her voice, considering how hard her heart was pounding.

  He stopped.

  She dared a quick peek over the hood of her car. Rick stood about ten feet away. His coffee-brown eyes met hers, his lips parting.

  “You called me earlier,” she said.

  His mouth quirked. “Technically, you called first.”

  “Did Quinn tell you what to say?”

  “Not exactly. You know how damned inscrutable he is.”

  “But he did tell you to say ‘Sigurd’?”

  “He told me to remember the word. I chose to say it.”

  As Quinn had known he would. Manipulative bastard. “What have you been doing since MacLear went down?”

  “Working.”

  She sat back on her heels. “Doing what?”

  “Security-threat analysis. My brother has an agency.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “I have two of them. And three sisters. I didn’t just hatch out of a rock somewhere, you know.” Rick’s gaze focused on the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. “I really don’t like having a weapon pointed at me.”

  “Too bad.”

  He pressed his lips in a tight line. “Very well. What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?”

  “Nothing.” She motioned with the gun. “I need to leave. You’re standing in front of my car.”

  “What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?” he repeated.

  Before she could answer, something hit her windshield with a loud crack, spider-webbing the glass.

  “Get down!” she shouted to Rick.

  She heard a soft thud and a low groan.

  “Rick?”

  Scrabbling sounds came from the other side of the car, moving toward her. She wheeled and aimed the Smith & Wesson at the sound. Rick ducked around the front of the car, tumbling forward onto his hands and knees at the sight of the gun. “May I please hide behind your car?” he gritted between his teeth.

  She made room for him. “Are you hit?”

  “Grazed my arm, I think. Sigurd, I presume?”

  “Sigurd’s a warning, not a person.” She risked a quick peek over the hood of her car. She saw a flash of black move between the pines in her front yard. “There’s someone in the front yard. Dressed in black.”

  Rick crouched beside her, looking through the car windows. He took a hissing intake of breath as a black-clad figure slipped one t
ree nearer.

  “Is there a way out of here?”

  “We can escape into the woods, but I’m guessing whoever’s out there isn’t alone.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Rick told her about a stranger he’d spotted at the gas station. “He was definitely alone, and I’m pretty sure the man in black out there is the same guy.”

  “How can you tell? He’s wearing a ski mask.”

  “Same body build, same clothes. If you spot a Toyota Land Cruiser nearby—”

  Amanda peered over the hood of the car. The man in black was on the move again, slipping out into open. For the hell of it, Amanda fired off a couple of quick shots in his general direction, the gunfire echoing in the surrounding woods.

  “Don’t waste the ammo,” Rick warned. “We’ll need it.”

  “What we really need is a vehicle. We can’t hike out of these woods.” She looked at Rick, her heart giving a small leap as she realized his face was only inches away.

  For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, and she was back in Tablis, her body tangled with his, hot and straining for more—more pleasure, more closeness, more communion. But the crackle of footsteps on the dry leaves in her yard dragged her back to the present, a sobering reminder that there were damned good reasons not to let herself get wrapped up in anyone again.

  “Let me lead him away,” Rick suggested. “You can take the car and get out of here.”

  “And leave you to die?” She shook her head. “No way in hell. I don’t leave a man behind.”

  He gave her a quizzical look, and she dropped her gaze, hiding the chaos of emotion churning in her chest. He probably had no idea what had happened to her the day after they ended their affair. The CIA never publicized its casualties.

  “We can’t wait here for him to reach us.”

  “In my kitchen is a duffel bag. I packed it to run. I’m going around the back and out into the woods. I’ll lure him away from here. Where’s your car?”

  “Parked down the road.”

  “He may have seen it—and if he disabled it—”

  “I hid it off the road. Didn’t want it stolen.”

  “Take the duffel. Go to your car and drive a mile east. I’ll meet you if I make it.”

  There was a pained look in his eyes as his gaze met hers. “No ifs,” he said fiercely. “You make it or else.”

  She fought against a sudden flood of weakness. Where had he been when she was rotting in a Kaziri rebel prison, wondering if anyone remembered her at all?

  You’re the one who started pushing him away.

  But he was the one who’d spoken the final words.

  “Wait for me to draw his fire away from here, then go inside. There’s a first-aid kit in the duffel, but I don’t think you’ll have time to waste.”

  He moved suddenly, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her to him. “If you can kill him, do.” He kissed her forehead.

  Swallowing hard, she scooted backward, losing cover for just a moment. No gunfire came her way, to her relief. She must have caught the attacker changing positions.

  She edged her way around the side of the house, straining for any sound ahead. Her house butted up to a bluff, offering little room to maneuver. But if she could get around to the other side of the house, the woods spread for almost three miles to the east. She knew Bridal Veil Woods like the back of her hand. If she could get a head start into the cover of the trees, she could outmaneuver the gunman and get away.

  Or get the drop on him.

  RICK’S ARM WAS HURTING like a son of a bitch, but the wound was superficial, a bloody graze on his upper left arm that would require some first aid once he had a chance to breathe again but wasn’t likely to cause him any real problems. He found the duffel bag in the kitchen, lying on the floor where she’d left it, probably when he knocked on her door unexpectedly.

  He wasn’t sure why Tara—Amanda—was hiding out in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, but something had gone terribly wrong since the last time he’d seen her. He’d seen it in her haunted blue eyes.

  What had the CIA done to her?

  He hauled the duffel bag over one shoulder and headed to the back door, waiting for the bark of her Smith & Wesson to the east, his signal to make a run for it.

  When the gunfire came, it was a pair of shots. One impossibly close, the other from the woods to the right of the house.

  Then silence.

  Rick froze in place, not sure what to do next. After a beat, he heard footfalls on the front porch, slow but steady.

  He leveled his Walther at the door, his heart pounding a familiar, rapid-fire cadence. He’d been away from war zones a year now, but some things a man never forgot.

  “Rick, it’s me.” Amanda’s voice came through the thin wooden door. “I’m unlocking the door and coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”

  He kept the Walther steady, aware she could be speaking at the point of a gun.

  There was a rattle of the doorknob, the slide of a key into the lock and the scrape of the dead bolt disengaging. The door swung open and Amanda entered alone, looking pale and jittery. “I shot him. He’s dead,” she said. “I need you to see if he’s the man you remember from the gas station.”

  He laid a comforting hand on her arm when he reached her side. Her muscles twitched at his touch, as if she was ready to bolt at any second. Probably was—it was hard to control the physiological instinct for fight or flight, even if you were a highly trained intelligence officer.

  The body of the shooter lay on the grass in front of her yard, blood still oozing from a chest shot. “Good aim,” he murmured, circling the body to get a look at the man’s face.

  What he saw there came as a complete surprise.

  “It’s not the guy from the Land Cruiser,” he said aloud, his voice tight and strained.

  “But you recognize him?” she asked.

  He nodded. “His name is Delman Riggs.” He looked up at her, his heart in his throat. “He used to work for MacLear.”

  Chapter Three

  “We have to move his body.” Amanda kept her voice low and calm, even though an endless shriek of terror played in a constant loop in her mind, echoing the memories that would never leave her as long as she lived.

  But she had to focus on what needed to be done now. She could fall apart later, when she was finally alone again.

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Move his body where?”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. We have about five minutes before the police get here. My neighbors will call in the gunfire. We’ve got to move now.”

  “Why don’t we stick around and talk to the cops.” Rick spoke to her in a careful voice, as if he realized how close she was to snapping. “We’ll tell them what happened. I have the wound to prove we were under fire.”

  She stared at him. “The Thurlow Gap cops aren’t cut out for a mess like this. Do you honestly think this will be the only attempt on my life?” She checked the Smith & Wesson’s clip to make sure she’d fired only four shots in the chaos. God knew how many more rounds she might need before this nightmare was over. “We’re wasting time talking about this.”

  Rick stared at her. She saw the moment he realized she was right, that they couldn’t stay here and wait for the cops. But it was clear from his expression that he didn’t want to bug out. He wanted to handle this mess the normal way—call the cops, make a report, then forget about it and go on with life.

  Good for him. She was glad he’d found his own little dose of normal in the world.

  But she never would.

  Sliding the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, she headed up the porch steps. “If you want to talk to the locals, fine. Stay here and chat it out with them. I have to go.” She went into the house, picked up the duffel bag Rick had left just inside and carried it out to the porch.

  “How are you getting out of here? You think they won’t put out an APB for your car?” Rick asked from the bottom of the st
eps as she descended.

  “I’ll walk.” She slung the heavy duffel bag over her shoulder, looping her arm through the canvas strap.

  “And get picked up before you reach the next county.” Rick shook his head, falling in step with her as she headed toward the woods. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

  She stopped at the edge of the clearing, taking a good look at him. The past three years had been kinder to him than her. He’d always been good-looking, but the intervening years had added lines of maturity to his face that suited him. His dark eyes looked older, too. Wiser, maybe. A lot more jaded.

  She could sympathize with that.

  “I don’t know where I want to go,” she admitted. “I just want to get out of here before the people around here end up getting hurt. They don’t deserve this kind of mess. And I’m not ready to offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb.”

  “There’s going to be a mess, no matter what we do,” Rick warned. “If you disappear, no warning, no goodbyes, and the cops come here and find bullet holes riddling your carport—”

  “All right! You’re right. There’s going to be a mess.” A manic energy bubbled in her chest, driving her relentlessly toward desperation. “So let’s make it a big mess.”

  Reversing course, she jogged around to the back of the cabin, where she kept the gasoline generator that had gotten her through one frigid winter when the mountain snowfall had knocked out her electricity. Next to the generator stood the weatherproof bin where she kept a five-gallon container of gasoline. She’d just stocked up a couple of days earlier, in anticipation of next week’s promised thunderstorms.

  She didn’t like to be stuck in the dark. Not anymore.

  Rick caught up with her. “What are you doing?”

  Amanda pulled the gas can from the bin and pulled off the cap. The pungent odor of gasoline fumes wafted around her, fueling her sense that she’d reached a point of no return. She met Rick’s troubled gaze, her lips curving in a ghost of a smile. “Remember Choqori?”