by Lara Adrian
Phoebe marched back into the living room and glanced around. She hadn’t really had a chance to take a look the night before, but now she noticed it immediately: the place was barely decorated. There were no personal effects, no pictures on the walls, no books on the built-in bookshelves. Just a stack of newspapers and flyers from the local supermarket.
The furniture was secondhand and didn’t match: a sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table. She noticed a white piece of paper on the table. When she approached, she realized that somebody had written a few lines on it.
I’m sorry. You wouldn’t understand. Please don’t look for me.
It wasn’t signed.
She didn’t have to be a detective to figure out who’d written the note and that it was meant for her. Scott had just ditched her, fled his own apartment and dumped her.
“Bastard!” she cursed.
You wouldn’t understand. Yeah, right! A typical male excuse. How dare he treat her like that? Why had he even asked her to stay the night, then? Just so he could screw her twice more, until he’d had his fill? Damn it, he’d even woken her in the middle of the night, his cock already thrusting into her, and she hadn’t protested. No, she’d found it exciting. What an easy lay she’d been! Stupid!
She ran back into the bedroom and peered out the window. The motorcycle was gone. Figured. A more thorough search of his apartment revealed that he’d left nothing worth coming back for. She couldn’t even find a single piece of mail with his name on it. Instead she found a shredder and a bag with shredded paper. Since she hadn’t heard him use the shredder during the night, she had to assume he made it a habit to shred every piece of mail as soon as he’d read it. Who did that? Such action appeared downright paranoid. And it made her more than just curious. It made her suspicious. What did Scott have to hide? Not even a guy trying to avoid making child support payments did that. No, Scott had to be involved in something more nefarious. And she would find out what it was.
The reporter in her couldn’t just walk away. But it was the spurned lover in her who made the final decision: she needed to know why he’d left after the amazing night they’d spent in each other’s arms.
Phoebe grabbed her phone and dialed a number. The call was answered on the second ring.
“Hey, doll! What’s up?” chirped the cheerful voice of Andrew, her go-to guy for electronics.
“Oh thank God you’re up already.”
“Already? Doll, I haven’t been to bed yet. So, what’s cooking?”
“Remember that tracker chip you gave me a few months ago when I was trying to get the scoop on that politician?”
“Sure, what’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I hope. Does it still work?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I put it on somebody’s motorbike yesterday. And I need to find out where that bike is heading.”
“Sure, it’s gonna work. Let me just log in.” There was a short pause. “Okay, got it, but it’s still moving, heading southwest on Highway 6.”
“Can you somehow keep me up to date on where it’s going?”
“Yeah, but that’ll take me about fifteen minutes. I’m gonna have to set up a live update for you. Do you want me to send it to your cell?”
“Can you do that?”
“I can do anything, doll,” he said confidently.
“You’re the best! Fifteen minutes?”
“Give or take. I’ll send you a link to an app you’ll need to install, and as soon as I’m done programming it, it’ll ping and you’ll get live updates every thirty seconds. It’s almost as good as a live feed.”
“Thanks, Andrew! I owe you one.”
“By my count, that’s more than one so far. But who’s keeping track?”
Phoebe chuckled. “You are, I’m sure. Talk soon.” She disconnected the call and charged into the bathroom. She would have just enough time to shower and get dressed before she could head out and follow Scott.
She wouldn’t be a journalist if she didn’t try to get to the bottom of this. Something stank to high heaven, and she would find out what it was. And not just because she needed a good story to keep Eriksson from firing her. Now it was personal. Nobody ditched Phoebe Chadwick as unceremoniously as Scott had done and got away unscathed.
A little voice in her head piped up. You wouldn’t be doing this if he were ugly and bad in bed. Admit it—you’ve got the hots for him and want more.
“Ridiculous!”
12
Scott had driven over five hours with barely any breaks, having filled his tank once at a small gas station which didn’t appear to have any security cameras mounted. Just to be sure, he’d stopped his motorcycle at an angle from which the gas station attendant couldn’t read his license plate. He’d paid cash. He never paid by credit card. In fact, he’d ditched all his cards from his former life, and when there was need for a credit card, he purchased a pre-paid card in a supermarket and paid cash. Cash was king to a man on the run.
He’d stayed off the freeways, preferring the smaller highways and country roads with less traffic and less chance of running into the highway patrol. Though he’d changed the license plate of his motorcycle the moment he’d returned from the train collision, he hadn’t yet had a chance to repaint the bike. He should have known better and spent the night at Al’s shop, letting himself in with his spare key, rather than screw Phoebe as if he could afford the luxury of such a distraction. Now he was paying for having indulged in the pleasure of spending the night in Phoebe’s arms.
He couldn’t change it now. And a part of him didn’t want to change anything about the previous night. He recalled the words of one of his instructors at The Farm, where he’d spent countless months training for the CIA.
“Acknowledge your mistakes and move on. Dwelling on them will only lead to more mistakes,” he’d said more than just once. “Instead, examine what you did and see if there’s any advantage you can glean from it.”
Scott involuntarily smiled. The advantage of having spent the night with Phoebe was that he felt content for the first time in three years. Sated, satisfied, whole. While he knew this feeling would vanish soon, he appreciated the energy he’d garnered from it. As if he’d filled his tank just like he’d filled the tank of his Ducati.
He knew he would never see Phoebe again, but he also knew it was for the best. He couldn’t drag her into this. Danger followed him everywhere he went, and while he was trained for this, Phoebe wasn’t.
Maybe in another life they could have had more than just one night, but he only had this life to live and he wasn’t going to do anything to endanger her or himself. He’d promised his father to continue what he’d started. Maybe not under the protection of the American government, but there had to be other ways to fulfill his destiny and use his gift to protect those who needed him.
Feeling tiredness creep into his bones, he started scanning the neighborhoods he drove through. He had to find shelter for the rest of the day. He needed to sleep, eat, and shower, and would continue his journey south around midnight, when the streets were deserted.
Scott slowed his motorcycle, staying only slightly below the speed limit. Any slower and he would have attracted attention. Going too slow piqued people’s interest just as much as going too fast. His surveillance instructor had taught him that.
“Always be ordinary,” he’d advised. “Ordinary means invisible. That’s what you want to be—a ghost who people walk past without seeing. Don’t do anything that makes them remember you.”
Well, he’d epically failed at that with Phoebe, that much was certain. As Scott thought of her, he hoped that his note had pissed her off enough that she’d left his apartment posthaste and was gone by the time his enemies had found out his address. Not that he thought she could tell them anything that would lead his enemies to him, but he didn’t want her involved in something that could put her in danger. Because once they found out she was a reporter, there was no telling what they’d do. Th
at’s why he’d written the note the way he had.
You wouldn’t understand was a red flag for any woman. Waved at a woman, she would turn into a fury and stomp out, slamming the door behind her—after she trashed his place. Considering there wasn’t much to trash, Scott estimated that it had taken her less than twenty minutes to leave his apartment after he’d made sure she was awake by setting the radio alarm on his bedside table for half an hour after he’d left.
Outside a convenience store he stopped and pulled a free real estate circular from a display on the side of the street. Every small town had a rag like it. Some were thicker, some thinner, but they all contained the same: homes for sale and rent.
Scott tucked the paper into his leather jacket and continued on. A mile outside town, he pulled off the road and parked behind a copse of trees. He got off the bike and stretched. He was used to spending long hours riding a motorcycle, and the Multistrada was a comfortable bike for long rides, but he felt stiff nonetheless. Soon he’d be able to lie down and rest for a few hours.
Scott pulled the paper from his jacket and started scanning it. He quickly found what he was looking for.
Foreclosures, it said halfway down one page.
The ads read mostly the same: Three bedroom, two bath house in good neighborhood, large yard. All good, but he was looking for something in particular.
Vacant, he finally read. Perfect. Plus the real estate agents were even advertising where the houses were located. Some even noted the house number and the street. That was all he needed. Several ads fit his criteria. Then he found one other crucial piece of information.
Showings on Wednesday and Saturday only, one ad read.
He was in luck. Today was Tuesday. Nobody would be showing up at this particular house until the next day. By then, he’d be gone.
He punched the address into his GPS device and headed for it. It wasn’t far. When he saw the house, he drove past it. He needed to check out the neighborhood to see if there was anything he had to be aware of. To his relief, the house wasn’t in a subdivision where you could practically hear your neighbors flush the toilet. The house stood on a large lot, mature trees in the front and back, overgrown grass and bushes in the front.
Scott turned right when he saw a path leading to a street behind the house. He took it and looked around. There was no fence at the back of the house, enabling him to approach it without anybody from the street seeing him. The shed in the backyard was in disrepair as was the entire house by the looks of it, but it would do nicely to hide his bike. He killed the engine and jumped off.
His eyes and ears were vigilant while he pushed his motorcycle out of sight and took what he needed from the side cases. Then he closed the shed door and walked to the back entrance of the house. It was a ranch style, one-level home with a pitched roof.
Scott spied through the window next to the door. Like he’d suspected, this was the kitchen. And like in so many houses, the back doors were easy work for any intruder. With one of his trusted tools the lock sprang open within thirty seconds.
He stepped inside and listened. No sounds.
On the kitchen counter, the real estate agent had left flyers about the property and his business cards. He glanced at them. Correction: her business cards. The agent’s plastic smile beamed at him from her cards.
Scott tested the light switch. It worked. The electricity hadn’t been disconnected. He walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. Clean water flowed from it. Good. It was all he needed.
As he inspected the property, he was pleased to see that several pieces of furniture had been left by the previous owners, including a single bed in one of the rooms. At least that meant he wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. He opened all the cupboards, and in one of them he found a few mismatched pillowcases and sheets. They would be sufficient to serve as makeshift towels to dry off after his shower, which he would take right after he’d eaten something.
He placed his emergency sack of food on the kitchen counter and unpacked what he’d brought.
13
Scott woke with a start. It was pitch black around him, and for a split second he didn’t know where he was. But then it all came back. He was sleeping on a bed in a foreclosed home on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri.
And despite all his efforts, they’d found him.
They were good, Scott had to admit. But they wouldn’t succeed. He wasn’t going down that easily.
The intruder was too loud. While he certainly made an effort to be quiet, he’d made the mistake of keeping his shoes on. Had Scott been tasked with sneaking up on a target, he would have taken his shoes off and approached silently. His target wouldn’t even have woken and realized what was coming. Whereas this would-be assassin was behaving like an elephant in a china shop.
Scott rose silently. He was fully dressed except for his boots and leather jacket, which lay on the floor beside the bed. His Glock was locked in one of the cases on his Ducati, but his knife was right where he wanted it, in his hand. In a place like this, he preferred to defend himself with a knife, instead of shooting a gun which might alert nosy neighbors to his whereabouts. A knife was silent and just as deadly if you knew how to use it.
Scott had left the door to the hallway open, which now benefited him. The intruder wouldn’t hear him coming. On bare feet, he snuck into the hallway, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness around him. He breathed silently, taking shallow breaths, avoiding anything that could alert the intruder to the fact that Scott was already onto him.
The sounds came from the back. Somebody was coming out of the kitchen and entering the hallway. Scott darted into the next room, the largest of the bedrooms, and pressed himself against the wall next to the open door.
The footsteps got louder. A few more seconds and the intruder would be even with the door. Scott counted in his head, holding his breath all the while.
Another sound, and Scott pounced, emerging from his hiding space and jumping onto the intruder, slamming him against the wall, knife drawn and ready to plunge into him.
A high-pitched gasp broke the silence.
Simultaneously Scott noticed something else: the body he’d slammed against the wall was lighter and smaller than he’d expected. And softer too. They’d sent a female assassin after him?
“Fuck!” he cursed, though it wouldn’t matter. He’d kill a woman just as easily as a man.
“Scott?”
His hand holding the knife arrested in mid-thrust. It nearly dropped from his grip, so shaken was he by the voice he heard. “Phoebe?”
A relieved breath came from her, echoing his own. But his relief wasn’t long-lasting.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He pulled her into the kitchen, where moonlight shone through the large windows and allowed him to see her properly without switching on a light.
“I was following you. And why the hell were you attacking me?” She glared at him and ripped her arm from his grip.
Scott clenched his jaw. “Because you don’t break into a house and sneak up on somebody in the middle of the night.”
“It doesn’t look like this is your house. There’s a for sale sign out front. So don’t lecture me on breaking and entering!” Phoebe braced her hands on her hips in a show of defiance.
Right now, Scott felt like paddling her ass. He’d nearly killed her, and as a result his hands were still shaking. “That’s beside the point! How the fuck did you even find me?”
“I have my ways.”
He made a step toward her, growling. To her credit, she didn’t flinch. “How?” If he’d inadvertently left a trail, he had to know about it. Now. Before his enemies followed it and got to him.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you left.”
“I don’t play that game.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Well, like it or not, now you do. And I have a whole bunch of questions I’d like answered.”
“Not a chance. I told you before that I won’t answer an
y of your questions, no matter how good the sex was.” And the sex had been amazing.
“Yeah, and while we’re on that subject—how dare you leave me that insulting note? You wouldn’t understand? Jerk!”
She glared at him, and despite the dim light in the kitchen, Scott could tell she was hurt. He shoved a hand through his hair, combing it back. There was a reason why he never got involved with anybody. It only led to complications. “Shit, Phoebe! Why couldn’t you just trash my place and let out your anger on me that way? Why did you have to come looking for me?”
A perplexed look spread over her face. “You purposely pissed me off? Why?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does to me,” she ground out.
“I wanted you gone from my place, okay?” Gone, so his enemies couldn’t hurt her.
“Of all the rotten guys I’ve been out with, you really take the cake!” Her lips trembled now.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I never made any promises to you.”
“No, you didn’t. My mistake, expecting the hero who saved twenty-seven lives not to behave like an asshole!”
“Damn it, Phoebe!” He gripped her upper arms and dragged her body against his. “I’m not an asshole. I was trying to protect you.”
She scoffed. “Protect me?”
“From the people who’re after me. I had to make sure you left my place before they got there.”
Phoebe shook her head. “You’re just making that up to pacify me. I’m not that naïve.”
Scott let out a bitter laugh. “If I wanted to pacify you I’d employ another tactic.”
“Oh, yeah, what kind of tactic?” she spat.
“This one.”
He cupped the back of her neck and sank his lips onto hers. After a stunned split second, she struggled, hammering her fists into his chest, but her lips parted upon his urging tongue and he swept inside, tasting her. Instantly his entire body was aflame again, just like the night before when they’d made love. He encircled her waist and yanked her to him, grinding his groin against her.
