by Juno Rushdan
Then he gave her a sexy, lopsided grin.
A zing speared her belly. She clutched her purse against her stomach to steady herself.
“You don’t have many friends here, do you?” His tone was soft as velvet.
“No. Not many.” Zero friends, at work or otherwise. Her dad didn’t count.
“Sounds lonely. Might be nice to let someone get to know you, spend time with you.”
His warm smile spread, lighting up his face, thawing his icy eyes. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips. If he’d been within tongue’s reach, she would’ve licked him.
“I’d like to be that someone.”
Her mind pinwheeled. “Huh?” She’d heard him, but he might as well have spoken Greek.
His perfect smile dimmed. “I’m saying that I’d like for us to be friends.”
She managed a swallow, loud enough to punctuate the thickening tension.
Gideon’s gaze fell to where she was clutching her purse like a lifeline and back up to her face. “Do I scare you?”
“Sometimes.” Big. Fat. Lie. He scared the heck out of her all the time.
She’d involuntarily memorized his personnel file. Information had a way of wallpapering itself to her mind. Age: thirty-two. Height: six-three. Weight: two-ten. Trained by the CIA. Sole Gray Box helicopter pilot. The specifics of all his assignments. She’d even hacked into the sealed parts of his record and devoured every nugget that’d been redacted. Savage details, extreme things he’d done out of duty and in self-defense. How he’d killed with his bare hands and once ripped a man’s carotid out with his teeth.
She was as frightened by him as she was attracted to him. What did that say about her?
He backed away at her admission.
Frowning, he tugged at his shirt collar as if it’d gotten too tight and raked back his unruly forelock. She wanted to erase the uncharacteristic red dots of color surfacing on his cheeks.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” That was the first time she’d heard his voice sound so low and shaky. “I’d never hurt you, Willow.”
Another hard swallow. He’d said her first name. She didn’t think he knew it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Is it okay to walk you to your car? I can hang back in the lobby if it’s not.”
Who wouldn’t want a hot guy walking them to their car? It just didn’t make an iota of sense why he wanted to. “It’s okay.”
The elevator opened onto the same floor. They hadn’t moved. She hadn’t pressed the button for the lobby and neither had Gideon. She was going to be late.
Castle, a hardnosed operative built like a howitzer, entered and hit the button for the lobby. He jerked his chin up, and Gideon did likewise.
The elevator cage crowded in, and she wanted to run off. Gripping her purse strap, she watched the floor numbers illuminate as they ascended from the secure sixth sublevel. She’d rather look at Gideon but couldn’t pry her gaze from the elevator’s display until the doors opened. It was one of many things she couldn’t explain to others about her spectrum disorder.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Castle strode out first. Gideon stepped off at her side. Her kitten heels clicked across the smooth sea of concrete polished to a mirror finish. The sharp sound echoed in the austere, high-ceilinged lobby.
Castle swiped his ID card along one of the electronic turnstiles that sandwiched the metal detector and strolled outside. Gideon waved to the armed plainclothes guards seated behind the ivory marble desk, addressing both by their first names.
Maybe it meant nothing that he knew hers as well. Something inside her deflated.
A sign embossed with Helios Importing & Exporting in elegant gold script hung on the wall. The business front provided a plausible explanation for the specialized vehicles on the compound and the helicopter in the warehouse behind the main building and a credible cover story to family members for operatives traveling at a moment’s notice.
She swiped her ID card. The plexiglass flaps of the turnstile retracted, and she walked through. Gideon hurried ahead and pushed the door open for her, standing on the threshold. She brushed the steel frame on the way out to avoid physical contact that might be too personal at work—yet another rule.
The slap of broiling heat and unforgiving humidity had her blouse sticking to her dampening skin before they reached the tree-shaded parking lot.
“Where are you headed for your appointment?” he asked.
“Wolf Trap.”
“Where’s home?”
“Wolf Trap.”
She rushed to her car. Her pulse had a wild, skittering beat. He asked a lot of questions—twenty since he’d come to her desk. It was kind of nice. Answering questions was easier than racking her brain for something interesting to say. But his tone on the elevator had delved deeper toward want to take your clothes off than want to grab a latte, if she hadn’t misread things—as she often did. Now he stayed two feet away as if he were the one afraid—to get too close to her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that he scared her, but she wasn’t worried about her physical safety with him. She probably messed up the entire conversation, acted the wrong way, said the wrong thing. As usual. What if he never talked to her again?
Regret burned her face. She pressed a palm to her forehead. “Tomorrow, if you need me to do research for you, I don’t mind.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable, those blue eyes deadly serious. “Sure.”
“No need to be my friend. It’s my job.” Idiot. Such a poor choice of words, although true. It might be really nice to have him for a friend. She unlocked her car door. “I mean, I’m happy to help you.”
“Everyone needs an ally, Willow.”
Ally? What a strange way of putting it.
She hopped into her older yellow VW bug and brought the engine to life with a sputtering rumble. She cranked the air-conditioning and fastened her seat belt over her purse strap.
With her hands at the ten and two o’clock positions, she pulled off. She glimpsed Gideon in the rearview mirror, watching her drive out of the lot. He pivoted as if to step away but then lowered his head. Staring at the ground, he knelt and touched the asphalt.
She turned onto the single lane dotted with twelve-inch diameter silver disks. Headed to the front gate, she noted the sign that warned against exceeding thirty-five miles per hour. Higher speeds would activate the retractable pneumatic bollards—electrohydraulic stainless-steel pillars—that’d pop up from the ground. One of many security features of their lockdown protocol, also intended to prevent hostile intrusion.
Huge shade trees lined the road up to the six-foot rebar-reinforced concrete barriers that edged the first few hundred yards of the entrance. The automatic armored gate slid open.
The traffic light changed from green to yellow. She punched the gas, zipping by the small manned gatehouse, and cleared the light as she sped down the access road to hit the highway.
The George Washington Parkway ran along the Potomac River northwest to Langley, where it bled into I-495. Blowing past the fifty-miles-per-hour sign on the GWP, she eased off the gas. A slight incline slowed the car to sixty. She merged onto the two-lane highway. With the holiday, traffic would either flow smoothly or cramp in a blink. Hoping for the former, she switched on cruise control for fuel efficiency. Every nickel saved added up.
Drawing in a breath, she prepped for sensory triggers. She had difficulty processing certain sounds. Sirens overloaded her synapses, and the unbearable noise of metal on metal was crippling. Growing up, if an emergency services vehicle passed with sirens blaring, lights flashing, her sensory meltdowns in front of other kids had infuriated her sisters.
Her father never wanted her to drive, but she had no choice if she wanted to work at the NSA. In time, her excellent driving
record had lessened his qualms.
The parkway merged into I-495, looping the urban fringes of Virginia and Maryland, encircling DC. The southbound strip of highway construction wasn’t hampering her commute, but she hated the claustrophobic effect of the concrete barricades funneling four streams of traffic into three and blocking the shoulder. Barring any jams, she wouldn’t be too late.
Her car zipped up on a white minivan. She sighed, glancing at the adjacent lane to see if she could maneuver over. No such luck. She tapped the brake, but her car didn’t slow. The cruise control should’ve deactivated, but the light stayed on and the speedometer didn’t budge as her car devoured the pavement, getting closer to the van. This can’t be happening. She’d taken the car for routine service last month, and everything had been fine this morning.
She jabbed the button and pumped the brake again. The ABS light blinked on. The distance to the minivan closed at a staggering rate. She stomped her foot, and something in the brake assembly shifted this time, the spongy response giving way to no resistance.
The brakes are gone. Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear overrode disbelief.
A glimmer of light bounced inside the van. Cartoons played on two flip-down screens. Kids were inside, and she was rushing toward them with no brakes and nowhere to pull over.
Panic buzzed in her skull. What was she going to do?
An opening appeared. She darted behind a truck, despite the position drawing her further from the exit lane. Blocked on all sides, the speedometer snagged on sixty, and her options dwindled to nil. Her car barreled toward the back of the eighteen-wheeler. Horror flooded her.
She jammed down on the brake, the pedal to the floor, and prayed for a miracle. Honking, she signaled to change lanes, first trying to the left, then right, but no one let her in on either side.
The distance between her and the back of the truck’s high steel wall shrank. Two hundred feet dropped to a hundred. Eighty. Forty. Blood roared in her ears. Her stomach knotted.
If no one would let her change lanes, she’d have to force her way in.
A hairsbreadth from impact, she laid on the horn and swerved into the HOV lane.
04
Northern Virginia
Thursday, July 4, 6:50 p.m. EDT
The slick puddle on Willow’s parking spot, oily with a slight brown tint, was brake fluid. Gideon estimated almost a quart had leaked onto the ground.
He zoomed down the G. W. Parkway in his Jeep Wrangler, weaving through traffic, headed toward Wolf Trap. Gideon had spotted Willow taking the turnoff to the Beltway, I-495, bearing south—a treacherous roadway with random pockets of congestion. If she stayed on 495 too long, she’d hit a choked patch and risk hurting herself or someone else.
A cold pit split open in his gut. Accelerating off the southbound ramp, he scoured the condensed three lanes for her car.
Come on. Where are you?
A blip of yellow in the raging current of steel hooked his gaze but disappeared in front of a SUV before he identified the make. He swore, slapping the steering wheel.
The car on his left sped up, and he zipped over. Hazard lights flashed on a yellow Beetle trapped in a tight rush of traffic.
Willow.
Her bug passed a semi and cut across into the centerline of the roadway, riding the edge of the right lane, honking. The other car held firm, not letting her in.
Stuck in the middle of the two lanes, her vehicle rammed a black sedan. Horns wailed. Her VW bumped the car again. The sedan accelerated, and she slipped into the slow lane but just missed an exit.
A chill peppered the nape of his neck. She must be frantic with terror.
His wife’s last moments, helpless as his truck lost control and tumbled over the side of an embankment, must’ve been horrifying. He hadn’t been in the vehicle with Kelli, but the accident had nevertheless been his fault.
Despite their laundry list of marital problems, Kelli hadn’t deserved to go out that way. No one did, but especially not Willow. The only thing Willow was guilty of was being afraid of his advances. She’d shrunk away from his touch, stark fear in her face, but something else, too, had glimmered in her eyes, brought a flush to her cheeks. If he hadn’t been thrown for a double loop by her reaction, he would’ve realized what the fluid on the ground was sooner.
He slammed a fist on the dash.
As he rolled down the window, exhaust fumes hit him. He stuck his arm out, waving the car with the smoky transmission to move over while he laid on the horn until the vehicle changed lanes.
Up ahead on the parkway, traffic pinched into a grinding halt, dotted with steady red brake lights. The gridlock would stop her car, but the number of injuries and possible fatalities would be high.
Another exit sign appeared on the right. This was Willow’s last chance to get off before the jam. She swerved, taking the ramp. The yellow car raked the guardrail, screeching around the bend.
He signaled and beat on his horn, slashing in between cars to follow her.
Whipping around the curved off-ramp, the tail end of his Jeep swung out. Tires squealed, burning rubber. He wrestled the wheel and straightened out of the power slide.
He had to reach her. Help her somehow. Maybe it was his pent-up guilt over Kelli, all the things he’d done wrong that led to her accident. Or maybe it was simply how he was wired.
Not once in his life had he sat on the sideline when he should’ve been in the game. Never left a battle brother or sister hanging—not under fire, not under duress, not under any circumstances. He’d do everything possible to prevent anything bad from happening to Willow.
* * *
Aluminum scraped against steel as Willow’s car grated the guardrail. Sparks flared. The agonizing cry of metal clashing together stabbed her eardrums, and spiky pain bloomed in her head.
She squeezed her eyes shut and let go of the wheel, pressing her palms to her ears.
The metallic shriek drilled into Willow’s skull, jarring her senses. Her muscles hurt, paralyzed, like her body was caught in a steel-jaw trap. Her thoughts garbled in a wave of static.
Then a sudden, abrupt silence fell. Blessed peace pried her eyes open.
Blinding light cleared to a cloudy world as her car nosedived down a long slope. The ramp had straightened, mouthing open to three lanes. Vehicles lining the two on the left were stopped at a red light. She grabbed the wheel and veered toward the empty right lane.
The disorienting fog of agony lifted. Relief flashed through her, but as quickly as it came, it was gone. Her car was on a collision course with a major intersection of traffic.
Pressure welled in her chest.
Figures. She’d just had the most highly charged experience in her short life with a guy she was crazy attracted to, and now she was going to die. After living a neutral—
Neutral. She shifted from drive to neutral and dragged the tires against the concrete curb. The friction would shave off some speed but not enough. Not while pitched downhill on a trajectory sending her right into traffic with the cruise control jammed at sixty.
She had to avoid causing a domino effect of collisions in the intersection. Cranking the wheel, she plowed over the curb, scraping the undercarriage, and climbed the grassy berm over uneven terrain. Her gaze flickered up to the rearview mirror and a red Jeep speeding up behind her.
A concrete barricade ahead stole her attention and her breath. She spun the wheel, turning into the main street traffic. Cars squealed, braking. Another skidded and rear-ended a truck.
The Jeep bulldozed up beside her in the left lane, horn honking.
What was she supposed to do? What could she do?
The four-wheel-drive vehicle nosed past her bumper and crashed into her car, forcing her to make a hard right—straight into the parking lot of a grocery store.
A woman yapping on her cell pho
ne while rooting in her purse crossed in front of them. Willow’s chest turned to a block of ice.
The Jeep that had run up beside her tapped her car to the right, engaging her focus.
She steered away from the woman to the side of the building and a vacant part of the lot.
“Willow!”
The sound of her name penetrated her shroud of fear. She looked over through the Jeep’s open passenger-side window.
Gideon.
He signaled to her, punching his hand down and yanking his fist up toward his shoulder. She glanced to her side.
Gear selector? No.
Emergency brake. He wanted her to pull up on the emergency brake.
She gripped the handle and wrenched up. The car whipped into a wild spin. She gasped. Light swirled into a haze of gray. Nausea flooded her in a violent wave. Her body shivered like it wanted to splinter into a hundred pieces.
Pressing her head against the seat, she released the wheel and crossed her arms, hands to her shoulders. The tail of the car crashed into something, shattering the back window. The vehicle rocked, jostling her forward.
Phfowmph!
A dense pillow punched her, throttling her back. A white cloud engulfed everything. The airbag sucked up the space around her. A scream strangled in her throat and died.
Dust and white powder clogged her nose and esophagus. She choked on the remnants of terror.
Her car door swung open. “Willow! You okay?”
A loud pop echoed. Her airbag deflated with a hiss, as if it’d been cut. She drew in a shuddering breath and waved to clear the congesting dust from her face.
Gideon whipped a double-handled knife closed and reached for her.
A whimper slipped from her lips as she cringed, raising her arm. It was all too much—losing the brakes, the sound of metal grating, hitting vehicles. Almost dying. She needed to breathe, gain her bearings, before he touched her.
“I want to help you from the car and make sure you’re okay. I won’t hurt you.” He reached for her slowly. “Okay?”
