Bulletproof (Unknown Identities #1)

by Black, Regan

  An explosion rocked the pick up high and to the side and she dropped the Taser. Suddenly John was behind the wheel, throwing it into reverse.

  “Stay down.”

  “It’s crowded.”

  John spared the baggage employee an irritated look. “Give me his hat and then get rid of him.”

  She handed over the Logan airport ball cap then opened the passenger door, using her feet to push the employee out of the way. She cringed when he landed hard on the runway, but she bit her lips together and pulled the door shut.

  Tucked under the dash, she stared up at John, more than a little shocked by the mushroom cloud of dark smoke and flame filling the window behind him.

  Apocalyptic was the only word.

  “God, I hope they don’t bill us for damages,” she said on a choked laugh.

  He glanced down at her and grinned, absolutely unrepentant. It was the first one she’d seen that didn’t look painful. “They can put it on the credit card they say is stolen.”

  “Works for me.” She struggled to hold down the jangle of nerves in her belly. “What next?”

  “Your grandmother’s house.”

  “Senator Larimore will know about her house too if he was able to fabricate all that nonsense about us planning to take down the plane.”

  “Let’s hope they think I’m too smart to take you there.”

  “In a stolen pickup.” Didn’t sound like the best plan to her.

  “Leave the logistics to me. You handle your story.”

  The awe and gratitude she felt for his skill in saving her life and getting them out of the airport took on a new sheen. Something that felt far more like emotions and she didn’t do those well.

  Still, John was the one person in the world, aside from her dead contact, who wasn’t urging her off the story.

  She smiled, feeling the drying blood on her face stretch as it dawned on her that she liked him.

  She needed a shower. And maybe nine more lives... just in case.

  Chapter Six

  John turned his attention to the road. Hard to believe, with another man’s blood on her face, Amelia managed what appeared to be a genuine smile.

  Gabriel wouldn’t be happy with the mess and destruction at Logan, but he would get over it. Better a few delayed flights and unhappy passengers than a dead reporter. The dead bodies left behind, all but Stafford, were the enemy. He had no sympathy for them. This was a kill or be killed business. He also knew from experience the group behind Gabriel’s project would rather deal with cleanup than failure.

  With that in mind, he started prioritizing. They needed the basics first. Safe shelter and clothes that didn’t give the impression they were extras on a zombie movie set. She would want to communicate. His phone would have to do, unless and until they had proof it was compromised.

  “I’d like to ditch this car before we head to your grandmother’s house.”

  “We aren’t exactly dressed for public transportation.”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror as they left the cargo area of the international terminal. He’d expected to be followed by now, but he wasn’t complaining about the lack of company.

  “I know a mechanic who can help us out,” she said.

  “As you said, we’re not exactly dressed for the public.”

  “He owns a junkyard. By his standards we’ll look like we’re dressed for the opera.”

  “You’re sure you can trust him?”

  “As much as I trust you.”

  At the lack of sarcasm in her voice, he shot her a look. Huh. Her sincerity lit up her face. None of the previous clients he’d guarded had extended him the same courtesy. When this was done and he was free of his obligations to Gabriel, there would be time to deal with the shock.

  She squirmed a bit under the dash. “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  “Put the address in the navigation app,” he said, sliding his cell phone across the seat.

  “What do you think happened to the shooter in the airport?”

  He debated how to answer her question. The man who’d tracked Amelia and opened fire on them had been mobbed and tackled by other travelers. The news agencies would likely have pictures from innocent bystanders to backup an assessment of a man out of his mind, but John didn’t quite believe the situation was that simple.

  The first shot, the only clean shot, took out the lead guard. The subsequent shots could be considered mistakes, but he didn’t think so.

  “John?”

  “Concerned citizens took him down,” he replied, still replaying the scene in his mind. Odds were good the shooter had hit just what he’d wanted to hit. Recognition danced just out of John’s reach. Something beyond what he’d told Amelia in the airport about the flat gaze. There had been an uncanny familiarity in that face and too many places around the world they might have met.

  Had it been across a dusty road in Afghanistan? Maybe he’d seen that face in the small patch of sand and weeds that made up the prison yard in Mexico.

  The most likely possibility had the hair standing on end at the back of his neck.

  He rubbed the tension around the place where the first of his enhancement injections had been administered. If he ever saw that man again, he’d make sure to check for a similar marking.

  “You’re hurt,” she said on a gasp, struggling to get up from the floorboards.

  “Stay down.” He tugged at the frayed edges of his shirt to block her view of the blood staining his right side. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not my blood.”

  “Oh.”

  Not all of it anyway, he amended silently. The bullet had ripped through the fabric, grazing his side. He’d been braced for the pain of a gut shot and surprised by the miss that resulted nothing more serious than a scratch. “How long until we reach your friend?”

  “Navigation says ten minutes.”

  “Great.”

  He wanted far away from this truck. While he appreciated the lack of pursuit, it bothered him. Years ago, he would have craved the adrenaline rush of outwitting a pursuer. Now, after a decade or so of experience, his instincts screamed an alarm when things were too easy.

  Her grandmother’s place should give them a chance to breathe and regroup. Assuming it wasn’t already compromised.

  Taking the left turn as directed, they slowly rumbled along the broken asphalt dotted with soggy brownish lumps of weeds toward the center of a junkyard. On either side of the sorry excuse for a road, rusting cars and other lumps of unidentifiable metal rose up in tall hills.

  His instincts prickled and he slowed down even more. They may as well be falling for a blind canyon trap. “How well do you know this guy?”

  She scrambled up onto the seat. “He’ll give us a loaner and he’s a friend so he won’t talk.”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer. “How did you meet him?”

  “I did a story on chop-shops.”

  “Which side was he on?”

  “Mine,” she announced, sounding more like herself. “The cops pestered me for my source, but when they collared the ringleader it became a moot point.” Her full lips thinned to a grim, determined line. “I’ll win this war with Larimore, too.”

  He believed her.

  Precisely ten minutes later, having been introduced to Samson, the mammoth mechanic with a barrel chest and grease stained hands, John relaxed.

  There was no internet out here and just one grime-coated landline phone mounted on the wall above an ancient metal desk covered with clutter. Samson claimed his hands were too big for a cell phone and from what John could see, the yard’s inventory was stored in the man’s head. He suspected the shelf jammed with three-ring binders in a range of colors was just for show.

  Amelia insisted on using the restroom to wash her face. John waited outside the door, listening to her movements, the faucet and splashing water. When she exited, her face scrubbed nearly clean, she proceeded to haggle over the disposal of the pickup and a replacement
vehicle while he looked around the shop.

  “He’s pulling a car for us,” Amelia said, joining him as he stared at the underbelly of a rather tame looking minivan. “His girlfriend needed an oil change.”

  John didn’t waste energy trying to imagine the woman brave enough to date Samson.

  “I told Samson to bill The Torch,” she said. “Bernie will have a fit over the expenses on this story, but he can take it out of my life insurance if you fail to keep me safe.”

  “I won’t fail,” he said, turning away from her. He had too much riding on this assignment. The rest of his life in fact. His real life, the one that had once featured a vague fantasy of a big-city condo and anti-commitment women who got off on rough-edged retired soldiers.

  When he looked at Amelia, he saw she’d washed away the gore of the airport attack and his thoughts strayed from the task at hand. He wondered what her fantasies were like.

  “What do you want to do about clothes? Everything I have left is in my car –”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “Which is what I was about to say,” she finished with a lift of one delicately arched auburn eyebrow. “But this isn’t the best fashion statement.”

  He quickly looked away when she plucked at the sweater that wanted to cling to her breasts and slender waist. “It’s not like we have reservations at some swanky restaurant,” he said in the direction of the minivan. “We’re going into hiding.”

  “I get that, but imagine the trouble if we get stopped for a traffic violation between here and my grandma’s house.

  He rolled his eyes. There were ways around inconvenient traffic stops. “Do you ever quit?”

  “Of course not.”

  Did she realize it was becoming a serious challenge for him to resist the ornery grin on her face? She made him want things so far out of his reach that he didn’t dare think of them.

  “Don’t you have a source at Macy’s or somewhere?” While he appreciated her point about the clothing, he’d planned to wash out the clothes he was wearing once they reached her grandma’s house. “I can get by with what I have on.”

  “Your shirt is torn and –”

  He caught her hand, stopping her as she reached for the torn fabric at his side. He didn’t want her to see the battle-ravaged skin beneath. “It’s fine. I’ve been through worse.”

  Her blue-crystal eyes met his, giving him the strangest sensation that she was looking straight through the day’s events and right into those dark places he kept locked away from the world. From himself. As if she could see all the way to his soul.

  Except he didn’t have one of those anymore.

  “You do know that kind of response only makes a reporter more curious?”

  “You’ll get over it.” He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t summon the sound. Such a fighting spirit in her compact body, but any curiosity about him would definitely get her killed. “Take my word for it we’ve got enough trouble without you poking through my history.”

  “Two words.”

  “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “That locker business,” he didn’t feel safe even uttering the real phrase, “is irrelevant. If you keep pushing you’ll have to find another bodyguard.” And he’d have to implement his escape route sooner than expected. It was a precarious balancing act. Moving too fast limited his options and increased the chance of Gabriel anticipating his egress. Whatever the man had said, John knew better than to count on it as the full truth. If he waited too long they’d have time to pin him down with a new assignment or take him out.

  John knew which outcome he preferred. He also knew which outcome was more likely.

  She crossed her arms, the move creating more cleavage for him to admire or ignore. Since ignoring it was useless, he opted to admire.

  “My face is up here, John.”

  “I know.” But he needed to back her off. Feeling like a jerk, he let his gaze linger on each tantalizing place he would put his mouth if circumstances were different. He would spend hours exploring the shape and weight of her plump breasts, taste the pulse beating at the base of her lovely neck, and nibble that full lower lip until it was rosy.

  Damned if his stunt didn’t backfire.

  Her blue eyes had gone soft and his cock rock hard. He turned toward the sound of an engine approaching.

  Perfect timing, Samson.

  The car was much less perfect. Instead of a non-descript sedan, Samson had delivered a classic Porsche in a charcoal gray that matched the cloudy sky. John assumed the dealer plates were bogus.

  “Time to get back to business,” he said, striding for the car. He checked out the lights, turn signals, and mirrors. No sense getting stopped for a small infraction that might tip off someone. Plus it took his mind off the reporter who was working her way into his system like she had a road map and an engraved invitation.

  “Let’s go,” he said, opening the passenger door for her.

  “Now you’re a gentleman?” Her hips swayed as she sauntered past him to slide into the driver’s seat. “I think I’ll take it from here.”

  While he regretted pissing her off, the cold-shoulder routine relieved a bit of the pressure building in his system.

  After a final walk-around the car to verify Samson hadn’t tagged it with a GPS receiver, he slid into the passenger seat. He kept an eye out for trouble while she drove them away from the city, east toward the coast.

  Along the way, they passed more than one site he’d worked on with the construction company. Pathetic but true – those jobs and that crew were the definite high points of his recent years. He missed the physical labor and the honest sweat that went into building something.

  Something true and valuable that would still be here when all of his nameless deeds finally caught up with him.

  “Are you awake?”

  Her gentle question irritated him. He shifted in the seat, made it obvious he’d been keeping watch. “I’m still on duty, aren’t I?”

  She loosed a long exhale, caught that full pink lip between her teeth. “Drop the creepy asshole routine. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Only the stuff you don’t need to know.”

  “I confided in you about my story.”

  “And I’ll be here to make sure you get to tell it. A fair exchange of information isn’t in my contract.” He could give her something. It was no small shock to realize he wanted to. Just a small detail to get back on her good side, even if thought any personal connection meant a strategic disadvantage.

  For too many years he’d managed not to care about anyone or anything beyond his own skin. Whatever he admired about her – professionally or personally – caring for her would only hurt them both. Professionally and personally. Death had been his career. Being dead put a damper on living and that was one weakness both his enemies and hers would happily use against them.

  “At least tell me which one is your real name.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She countered his icy glare with a sudden, saucy grin. He refused to be charmed.

  “That mug shot,” she said. “It’s the kind of stunt my source talked about. Something easily fabricated and uploaded as if it was real.”

  He rubbed a fist across his clenched jaw. Impossible. Her story and his past should never intersect and yet somehow she’d mentioned the ‘locker thirty-one’ code phrase no one else knew.

  It had taken all of his considerable training to hide his reactions when she’d quizzed him in the car. Still, he’s sensed she didn’t quite believe his denials. If Gabriel had any idea that Amelia knew even that random piece of the intel, they were both as good as dead.

  “Go on,” he prompted when the silence stretched on.

  “When Larimore wants someone out of the way, suddenly things like that pop up to make that person’s life difficult. In the airport, that mug shot looked like you – might even have been you, but with a different name. That could have been a real problem for us.”

&
nbsp; “Could have been? I’d say it was a real problem for us.”

  “Well, we escaped.” She paused at the stop light, the turn signal chiming her intention. “Thanks to you. So was the mug shot or the name on the placard real? What kind of trouble have you been in?”

  “More than my share.” The light changed and she turned right onto the bridge leading out to one of the coastal suburbs of Boston proper. Perfect choke point, he thought, automatically wary. But contrary to the crowded Boston streets, the residents here had the good sense to stay out of the rain. “I’ve had my share of mug shots,” he admitted, knowing she wouldn’t drop the topic.

  “So the picture was real.”

  “Probably,” he eyed the other car in the oncoming lane until it passed by without incident. “This line of work occasionally lands me in hot water with the cops.”

  “And the name?”

  “Not mine.” Not since that particular operation anyway. He tugged on his cuffs.

  She bumped her fist against the steering wheel. “I knew it. That’s just how the senator abuses his power. He twists the truth, takes some tidbit of a life and turns it around so he maintains the advantage. We have to stop him.”

  “You, not we. You have to write your article and stop him.”

  “Senator Larimore drew you in when he created that mug shot. Surely that could hurt your reputation.”

  “My reputation will survive.” She needn’t know that he spent most of his days attempting to outrun whatever reputation he’d made last. They turned left off of the bridge, away from what appeared to be the town’s center. “How much longer?”

  “Not long. Just out to the peninsula.”

  “Your grandmother lives in a lighthouse?”

  “Almost.”

  He peered through the windshield, leaning forward all he could see in the dreary rain was the rocky coastline that kept the sea from the road and the town behind them.

  At the intersection, she made another turn and expertly guided the car along a narrow, paved roadway and out closer to the water. John felt anticipation zipping along his nerves and a sensation that had long been absent from his life: hope. Her grandmother’s house might just be defensible.