by Susan Mann
Quinn saw her chance. She took dead aim at the man’s jutted chin, stepped into her swing, and brought the book up from below. The spine of the book connected squarely with its target, sending the second man crashing to the floor. Blood dribbled from his mouth and collected in a dark pool on the carpet. Paralyzed, the only thing she could think was that she’d never get her cleaning deposit back when she moved out.
She glanced around the bedroom and noted the open window and smashed-in screen. Her vision went wonky and the book dropped to the floor. The shaking that started with her hands swiftly overcame her entire body. She would have joined the tome on the floor were it not for James’s arms around her. She was vaguely aware of his voice imploring her to stay with him.
Quinn wasn’t sure how long they’d stood like that when the shivering stopped. The fog in her brain lifted and she found that her head was resting firmly on James’s chest. The side of her face was wet and his sweater was damp from the tears she’d been shedding. She lifted her head, swiped her hands across her cheeks, and ran a palm over the wet spot on his chest. “I’m sorry. I got you all soggy.”
He squeezed her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be your handkerchief anytime.” He loosened his embrace and leaned his head back. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face toward his and searched it with worried eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay.” She sucked in a gasp when she saw the rapidly swelling cut on his lower lip. “We need to get you some ice,” she said and lightly brushed her fingertips over the angry red mark on his jaw.
“Maybe later.” A smile flickered on his lips. “You’re pretty lethal with that book of yours.”
“My trusty OED.”
“Did you take out the other guy with it, too?”
Her lips pressed together in a hint of a smile and she lifted a shoulder.
“Whoever said, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me’ never met Quinn Ellington.” His smile faded and he asked again, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded and, although he seemed reluctant to do so, he released her. He walked over to the far corner of her room, picked up his pistol, and slid it back into his ankle holster.
Her stomach tightened. “You need to tell me why you’re carrying a gun.”
He squatted down next to the unconscious burglar and rifled through his pockets. Coming up empty, he grabbed the man by the wrist and rolled him onto his stomach. He continued his search as he said, “I’ll explain later.” He removed a piece of jewelry from the criminal’s back pocket. He held it in his open palm for her to see.
“Hey! That’s my great-grandmother’s cameo. The other jackass tried to run out the door with my laptop.”
James’s face turned grim.
“We need to get the police here,” she said and took the phone from her pocket.
James leapt up and put his hand over the phone. “No.”
“What? Why not?”
When he hesitated, she threw his hand off hers and said, “I’m calling the cops.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
Icy tendrils of fear slithered around her heart. She backed away from him. “James, you’re scaring me.”
“Trust me, Quinn. It’ll be okay,” he said in a calm, soothing tone. “I just need you to not call the police and let me handle this.”
Her head spun. Two men had broken into her apartment and were now both unconscious on her floor. Her date had a gun. All she knew was that she had to get away from them. All of them.
She wheeled around and raced for the door. She was halfway across the living room when she heard what sounded like a muffled gunshot. A sudden and intense pain exploded in her right shoulder blade. She dropped to her knees and fell forward, flat on her face. Her final thought as her vision went black was that this was definitely the worst ending to a date. Ever.
Chapter Eleven
Quinn floated in the gauzy twilight between slumber and wakefulness. She felt wonderfully warm and relaxed. The thought that she shouldn’t be, though, nibbled at her contentment. When she drew in a deep breath, she smelled dust and pine. Had she died and gone to heaven? She burrowed deeper into the coziness with both mind and body.
Why had she wondered if she’d died? All at once, reality yanked her into full consciousness. She bolted upright and struggled to catch her breath.
Dizziness engulfed her. Flashes of the evening exploded in her vision. James. Dinner. The ocean. Intruders. A gunshot. She reached a hand around and touched her shoulder blade. Her fingers probed where she expected to feel a bullet hole and warm, sticky blood. There was no hole, no blood. Her shoulder was only tender to the touch.
A wave of nausea swept over her and it felt as if an ice pick had been jammed through her left eye. The spinning and the nausea and the pain were too much. She flopped back onto a pillow and concentrated on her breathing.
When she first heard the voice calling her name, it was hollow and distant. But as the roiling in her stomach abated and her breathing steadied, the voice drew closer and became more insistent. When she tried to tell the voice she heard it, her slurred words came out as nothing more than low moans.
Quinn wasn’t about to make the mistake of sitting up again. Instead, she decided the best course of action was to merely open her eyes. She drew in a deep breath to steel herself. She cracked her eyes open and blinked at the low light until the two amorphous shapes swimming in her vision melded into one. When the edges of the figure sharpened and she realized it was James, a mortar of fear exploded in her chest. He’d shot her. She had to get away from him and struggled to sit up.
“Shhh, Quinn. Take it easy. It’s okay,” James said.
She managed to right herself. The stabbing pain in her eye was still there, but at least it wasn’t as sharp as before. Quinn squinted at James. His face was pallid and etched with worry. The dark circles under his eyes made her think he didn’t feel much better than she did. His lip had fattened and the bruise on his jaw was purple. His bearing toward her was neither threatening nor hostile. If anything, it was the opposite.
Her fear morphed into anger. She tossed off the blanket and leapt up from a couch she knew was not hers. The pain and dizziness returned. Bubbles of white light formed and popped in her vision. Quinn’s fingernails dug into her palms. The withering glower she fixed on James could have melted the polar ice caps. “You . . . you kidnapped me!” Her words came out strangled.
“Technically, maybe. Actually, though, I saved you.” Despite her furious stare, he smiled and blew out a massive sigh of relief. He reached behind him and picked up a bottle of water. After removing the cap, he held it out to her.
“I don’t want your water!” she shouted, her voice so loud it made her head throb harder. “I don’t want anything from you!”
He winced and set the water on the table.
“You shot me!” The hurt and betrayal mushroomed like a nuclear bomb. “I trusted you, you son of a bitch!” Now trembling, her rage consumed her. She gripped the throw pillow her head had been resting on and walloped James on the side of the head with it. The pillow was surprisingly dense and when it caught him cleanly, the force of it sent him falling to one side.
Wielding the pillow like a club, she rained down blow after blow, trying to beat the living hell out of him. James ducked and raised his arms above his head to protect himself.
“I can’t believe you shot me!”
“Okay! Okay!” he said as she unrelentingly continued to pummel him. “I shot you, but not with a bullet. It was a tranquilizer dart.”
“So you took me down like a rampaging moose!” With a backhand swing, pillow and shoulder connected with a satisfying thump.
“I’m sorry I shot you,” he said from behind a protective arm. “I had no other choice. You were freaking out.”
“Of course I was freaking out, you idiot. You had a gun strapped to your ankle.” She paused for a moment, and when he lowere
d his arms, she smacked him with the pillow again. “Take me home. Now!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She snarled in frustration and gave him one last wallop before zinging the pillow past his head with the velocity of a high, inside fastball. “That’s not good enough. I’m outta here.” Despite her dizziness, she stomped across the room and threw open the door. It was pitch-black outside and snowflakes swirled around her, carried in on a gust of cold air.
“Snow?” she said, incredulous. The door slammed and she whirled around. “We’re someplace where it snows?” She stabbed a finger in his direction. “Tell me where the hell I am. Right now!”
“A cabin near Lake Arrowhead.”
“What?” Quinn stormed across the room and stood over him.
He sat motionless, as if afraid to make any sudden movements.
She glowered at him and punched her fists to her hips. “You just toss me in the backseat of your car like a sack of dirty laundry and haul me up to the San Bernardino Mountains?”
“I did not treat you like a sack of dirty laundry. I would never do that,” he said. His voice remained even, but she still picked up on the hurt that seeped through.
His hurt did little to dull the anger that still churned in her gut. She did, however, finally take a moment to study the room. Given her circumstances when she lost consciousness, she assumed she’d wake up dead, in a hospital bed, or strapped to a chair in a dark, dank, windowless warehouse.
It was, in fact, the very opposite of a dank warehouse. Just as James said, they were in a pine log cabin. The couch she woke up on, the coffee table he was currently perched upon, and an armchair were all log framed. A faded, tattered area rug covered the hardwood floor.
Weak flames licked at barely scorched logs set on the grate in the brick fireplace. It was clear it had only recently been lit and had not yet had time to overcome the lingering chill Quinn felt in the air.
Despite the charm of the rustic setting, her aggravation roared back. Her apartment had been broken into, she’d been tranquilized by her date, and dragged off to heaven knew where. Her nostrils flared and she growled, “You turned my life upside down, James. I deserve answers. Now.”
When he stayed silent, she let out a long, frustrated snarl and started to prowl the room like a caged tiger. She slid to a stop in front of the small kitchen when the electronic ring of a phone rent the silence.
James picked up a phone from the cushion of the armchair. It wasn’t the one she’d always seen him with.
“Yes?” He looked directly at Quinn as he listened. “Ms. Ellington is awake and has had no ill effects from the tranquilizer.” He nodded. “So am I.” After more listening—during which time Quinn’s ire rapidly turned into deep curiosity—James said, “You’re correct. She’s quite insistent she be told exactly what’s going on and why.” He stretched and threw his shoulders back. “If I may say, sir, I agree with her. She deserves to know.”
During the ensuing pause, the pressure built in Quinn’s chest until she felt like she was about to explode.
“Can I tell her everything?” he asked. When his shoulders lowered and he smiled and winked at her, she started to breathe again. “Thank you, sir.” The smile faded and James’s eyes grew cloudy with concern. “No, it’s been seven hours since I last heard from him. I tried contacting him during the drive to our current location, but he didn’t answer. I was about to try again when Ms. Ellington woke up.” His smile returned and he nodded. “Yes, sir. It’ll be gone in a minute. Good-bye.”
During James’s phone conversation, she’d been inching closer to him. “What?” she asked cautiously.
He pressed a button and dropped the phone back on the chair’s cushion. “Please, sit,” he said and swept a hand toward the couch.
She narrowed her gaze at him and considered her options. When she realized she didn’t have any, other than listening to whatever it was he had to say, she took her place at one end and folded her legs under her. He sat at the other end and faced her. He swallowed hard and gave her a rueful smile. Finally, he said, “I don’t really work for an insurance company. I work for the United States government.” His British accent was gone and he sounded as American as she.
The room lurched and Quinn gripped the cushions to keep from listing off the couch. She blinked, fighting the sudden sting of tears. “You’ve been lying to me.” Her voice was flat.
Crestfallen, he lowered his head and stared at his hands. “James Lockwood is my cover for this op.”
“You’re a spy?”
His head bobbled from side to side. “Covert operative.”
“So everything is a lie.” The threatening tears spilled over and coursed down her cheeks
He looked completely gutted by her pain. “No, not lies. My cover. And my name really is James.”
She brushed a finger over her wet cheeks and worked to regain her composure. “If you tell me your last name is Bond, I’m gonna punch you in the throat.”
It gave her perverse pleasure to watch him slowly lean back, as if moving out of her reach. “No, not Bond. Anderson. My name is James Anderson.”
Her anger flared again. “Well, James Anderson, I suppose you’re happily married to some former Miss Peach Blossom and have a kid on the way and I’m just some pain in the ass you have to deal with until the op is over?” She felt like a complete fool for believing he cared for her. “You’ve been playing me this whole time.”
He flinched. “I’m not married, I don’t have to ‘deal’ with you, and I’m not playing you. I really do like spending time with you.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” She scowled at him. “You could be feeding me a load of crap right now.”
“I could be, but I’m not.”
She dismissively waved a hand. “You’re trained to say anything to get me to go along with whatever the hell all this is.”
“No, that’s not what this is,” he said with a deep frown. “Look, your dad’s a Marine, right? I’m sure there are lots of things he knows, things he does, places he goes he can’t talk about to anyone, even to your mom.”
“He would never lie to her,” she shot back.
“He’d maintain his cover if he was in the middle of a covert op and she was someone he’d never met before. It’s nothing personal. It’s part of my job.” When she didn’t have a response, he said, “Let me explain everything and when I’m done, hopefully you’ll understand.”
Against her better judgment, and because her curiosity was actually going to kill her, she said, “Okay, tell me. Which agency do you work for? NSA? FBI? CIA? Homeland Security? DEA? Why me? Why am I mixed up in all of this? Was it just a fluke I was at the reference desk the day you came in? Is this connected with Mysterious Art Collector Guy?”
“Whoa, slow down,” he said. “On our way up here, I called my boss and my boss called his boss to get approval to tell you everything. That phone call was my boss saying I’ve got permission to do just that.”
When she opened her mouth to speak, he raised a hand to stop her. “The thing is, this is the U.S. government and it wants to ensure secrecy and protect itself from any liability. So, before I tell you anything else, they’re sending a document for you to sign that says you’re willing to be monitored twenty-four/seven to make sure you don’t leak anything I tell you, and I mean anything, including what you learn about me, to anyone.”
“Watch me twenty-four/seven? How are they gonna do that?” The minute the words passed through her lips, she said, “Stupid question. Forget I asked.”
James’s face remained inscrutable, although Quinn thought she saw a flash of humor in his eyes. “Secondly,” he said, pressing on, “if you get hurt in any way because of what you hear, it’s not the government’s fault.”
“CYA,” she said, referring to the abbreviation for covering one’s backside.
“The greatest acronym of them all.”
“What if I refuse to sign it? Let me guess. You’ve got a neuralyzer in your pocket and I’ll inexplicably feel a desperate need to go to Cambodia and get a lobster dinner for a dollar?”
“Sorry, I don’t track down rogue extraterrestrial aliens. That’s a different agency,” he deadpanned. “Seriously, Quinn, even if you don’t sign and walk away, the danger doesn’t disappear. We can keep you safe.”
“All of the phone calls, all of this”—she waved a hand around, indicating the cabin—“has been happening in the middle of the night?” She glanced at her watch. It was 2:30 in the morning.
“Yes.”
“Am I really this important?”
“Yeah, you are. And you’re especially important to me.”
She wanted to believe him and the look in his eyes seemed so sincere. But she knew James had been lying to her and she had no way of knowing if what he said now was the truth or a lie.
He stood and walked to where his briefcase sat open on the floor. He retrieved a tablet much like an iPad, only sturdier. He swiped his finger over a scanner at the bottom of the device and tapped at the screen. Then he held it out for her to take. “Here, read this.”
On the screen was a cover letter. The letterhead prominently featured a round seal that included a shield and eagle’s head. “CIA, huh?” She took the tablet and set it on her lap.
The letter acknowledged—but didn’t apologize for—her current circumstances and outlined what James had told her: sign or she’d be on her own. The document itself was peppered with words like indemnification, liability, obligation, and confidentiality. The phrases “bodily injury or death,” “national security,” “act of treason,” and “federal detention and/or imprisonment,” also caught her eye. “They sure know how to paint a rosy picture,” she said.
“They like to be thorough.”
She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “How do I know all of this isn’t some kind of elaborate scam? People make stuff up with Photoshop all the time.”