by Juno Rushdan
Think. There’s an answer.
He swept her again, making sure to run the wand along her back and up in between her legs. She flushed, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. He hated that she had to go through this. Wanted to tear the flesh from the bones of the men after her.
Still no indication of a planted bug. Gideon shook his head. He was missing something, an item she had to carry with her every day. Looking her over, he asked, “Where’s your purse?”
It was the only thing not on her.
As she ducked into the car and grabbed the backpack, he checked his wound. The blood flow was cause for concern. He needed to clean and suture the wound. Sooner rather than later.
Holding up her handbag, she spun around to face him. He unzipped the bag and stuck the black wand inside.
A high-pitched chirp bleeped.
“How?” she breathed.
He yanked out her wallet and dropped the bag. The chirps grew louder in a rising crescendo.
Damn it. He should have swept her at the mall before they’d nabbed a vehicle. He never made mistakes like this, always saw every angle. Closed every loophole. Every mission completed.
This was his fault they’d found her, even though the question of how pricked his mind. “I don’t know how this made it past our security protocol.”
He chucked the wallet over the balcony toward the outdoor platform for the Metro trains.
Willow’s eyes grew wide as she gasped. “No.”
He steered her into the car.
“My pictures,” she breathed.
“Pictures?” He sped down the exit ramp, tires screeching on every sharp turn.
“Of my parents, in my wallet.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Grimacing at his lack of sensitivity, he tore out of the parking garage. “I’m sorry. There was no time. I wasn’t thinking about—”
“Don’t apologize. You did what was best.” She wrung her hands, opening her eyes. “There’s R&D on stealth surveillance. Expensive, next-gen tech that’s not on the market. Designed to avoid detection unless activated.”
Gideon swore under his breath in four languages. Even if he had swept her at the mall, the bug might not have been active then. “We’ll worry about the tech later. For now, we need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Why do people use that phrase? What’s wrong with Dodge that people always want to leave it?”
“It’s from Gunsmoke, an old show.” Reruns used to play on TV when he was little. “It was set in Dodge City, Kansas, during the settlement of the American West. Nothing was wrong with Dodge—the opposite, in fact. The sheriff always warned the villain to get out of town, to protect the city.”
“Seems odd for you to use it in this context.”
Perhaps it did. He’d said it without thinking.
He made a beeline for I-95. The interstate was a straight shot southbound to the Occoquan River neighborhood he’d scoped out online. His exit strategy from Virginia was still solid.
Willow opened the med kit, grabbing an all-in-one adhesive gauze pad, the perfect solution to get him through until he could properly tend to his wound. The pads were pretreated with a microdispersed oxidized cellulose called Celox—a blood-clotting agent to temporarily stop the bleeding. He should’ve thought of it. Basic Survival 101. And he would’ve too, if his brain wasn’t misfiring.
What in the hell was wrong with him?
Rookie mistakes like these put operatives in body bags.
She ripped open a packet of Sani-Hands wipes and cleaned her hands. Leaning over, she tucked his jacket to the side and peeled his shirt gingerly away from the gummy blood with her fingers. It didn’t seem to make her squeamish.
The more he learned about her, the more he admired her. She kept her head in life-or-death situations, sharp-witted enough to patch him up, and she was a fighter.
She’d apparently set a merc on fire from the looks of his torched face. A quick-thinking, ballsy move. And when that fucker had grabbed her, she’d clawed like a rabid alley cat scrapping for all nine lives. He never would’ve guessed, before all this went down, that such a fierce spirit lurked beneath her shy veneer.
She dabbed away blood from around the wound and put the pad on with a tender touch, patting the edges to seal it.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Are you light-headed?”
His gaze bounced from the road to the rearview mirror every twenty seconds. He needed to be sure those bloodhounds weren’t tracking them. No one followed.
“I’m good.” He glanced at the red speckles on her face. “You’ll need to clean up before we get out of the car. We’re almost there.”
“Where exactly is there?” She fished through the glove box and nabbed tissues.
“We need to steal a boat. We’re sailing to the Cayman Islands.”
Her gaze fell to her lap and she fiddled with her pearls.
He would’ve killed to have a clear read on her. “What’s wrong? Can’t swim? Hydrophobic?”
“My dad. Going to the hospital is out of the question, but…”
“Try not to worry. He’s worth more to them alive. If you’re running, he stands a chance.” The anxiety in her eyes twisted his insides. He opened his hand to her. Without hesitation, she pressed her palm to his, interlacing their fingers.
“I’ll help you through this, Willow. I swear. Not for the sake of the Gray Box but for you.” He’d do anything to keep her safe.
She gave him a brave face, letting his hand go, but her muscles stayed rigid and her body was shaking. “Did you ever suspect me of being the mole? Or was it always your plan to use me somehow to figure out who the leak is?”
What had given her that idea? “God, no. To both.”
“The only reason you asked me out and came to my house was to investigate me. Right?”
“You were on the list of suspects due to circumstances, but investigating you was a waste of time and resources. I only wanted to prove your innocence. Then false evidence turned up, and I knew I had to get you out of the Gray Box and keep you safe.”
Seeming appeased with his answers, she looked in the mirror on the visor and scrubbed the blood off her face.
He applied pressure to his wound to slow the bleeding. “Did that animal hurt you?” The way the guy had grabbed her by the hair and dragged her had been vicious.
She lowered her head, closing the visor. “We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Damn. One of those bastards not only put his hands on her but hurt her in the process. Fury burned his veins. “I never should’ve let him get close enough to—”
“Gideon.” She slid her hand over his thigh, and the heat in him shifted from a kill-everything blaze to a gentler warmth that softened him, derailing his thoughts.
This was the last thing he needed. He had to be on point, stay sharper and harder than the bloodthirsty animals gunning for her. But the idea of pushing her away in that moment hurt worse than the gash in his gut.
“You saved my life. Again.” She gave his leg a little squeeze, and his heart jerked hard. “I’m sorry you’re hurt because of me. You could’ve been killed.”
“This isn’t your fault. Whoever the mole is, they’re playing the long game. They’ve put in a great deal of effort and resources to frame you. To plant a next-gen locator, covering their bases in case you ran. To send a hit squad.”
And not just any hit squad but one unlike any he’d encountered. Brutal and precise. He recognized his own kind. She didn’t stand a chance alone.
“Or whoever the mole works for is doing all this,” Willow said, clutching his leg.
Made sense. The leak had to have a powerful employer, one who wanted to ensure the traitor stayed embedded in the Gray Box. Otherwise, a smart mole would’ve punched out by now.
“That’s the million-dollar
question. Who is the wizard behind the curtain?”
* * *
After a twenty-minute drive, Gideon turned onto Poplar Lane and drove past the million-dollar homes along the Occoquan River. On an initial pass scanning for anything exploitable, he spotted newspapers—at least five of them sleeved in plastic—stacked in the walkway leading to the door of one house. A prime sign. That or overflowing mail was the best indicator a homeowner was on vacation. Easy enough to put that stuff on hold, but it was a common oversight made by many.
Some fools even advertised their actual status on social media. Once you found a house that might be unoccupied, it took one minute to run an address through a county property records search engine to get the owner’s name. Another five minutes stalking them on Facebook to see what exotic locale they’d chosen to frolic and play in. But he needed to see a boat firsthand.
He parked two doors from the vacant home and dug out the flathead screwdriver and hammer he’d purchased from the superstore. “Wait here.”
Their eyes caught. The anxiety exuding from her caused a weird drop in his stomach. There was little he could do to comfort her. They had to press on and get to safety on the water.
He tightened his grip on the tools and slipped out of the car. “I won’t be long.”
Zipping his jacket to hide his blood-soaked shirt, he stuffed the tools in his back pocket. He tipped his cap down and strode past manicured front lawns, up the driveway to the back of the vacant palatial house.
A large, white cruiser sat docked. Sabre model, forty-footer with a housed, raised cockpit, deck, and outdoor seating. The small motor yacht looked made for entertaining. Pay dirt. Assuming he could get her started.
He scanned the open row of sprawling backyards, left and right. Empty, and the water was calm. He strode down the dock, head up as if he belonged there, and hopped onto the boat. Bypassing an outdoor dining set, he headed for the double glass doors leading to the cockpit.
Locked.
No deadbolt. A simple mortise latch. He wouldn’t have to break the glass.
He jimmied the screwdriver between the doors, angling toward the latch. Two taps with the hammer, and he was in.
Hotwiring a boat for a long trip was dicey, always the chance of getting stranded on the water. And they weren’t in a position to radio for help. He’d risk hotwiring it if he had to, but the owner already demonstrated a gross lack of caution. No alarm. Advertising that they’d left the house vacant by not stopping the newspapers. No deadbolt on the boat.
High odds in their favor the keys were somewhere onboard.
He waltzed inside past an L-shaped settee and bolted-down table to check the ignition first. No luck. The owner was a moron but not brain-dead. He glanced around the captain’s chair and spotted the cockpit locker. Unlocked. He thumbed it open.
A smile edged his lips. Inside were maps, boat manuals, a fire extinguisher, one life jacket, safety certificate. Keys. Ding, ding. His grin widened.
He peeked at the certificate. “Thanks, Matt Trumball. Will try not to damage her.”
Ducking a few steps into the lower part of the cabin, he crossed a tiny galley with its compact fridge and two-burner stove. To the right, a rudimentary bathroom had a shower. He poked his head in the bedroom straight ahead. Tight quarters, but a full-size bed and closet.
The forty-footer was more than adequate. Plenty of room to stretch his legs between the cabin and the deck, and Willow would be able to rest on the bed.
Since they had the means to cook, he wouldn’t need the tabletop butane stove he’d purchased. He fired up the boat to ensure no engine problems and noted a full gas tank. Gideon liked this Matt Trumball more and more.
He strode back to the car to find Willow fiddling with her pearls. The world must be moving at a breakneck pace for her. Everything that transpired in the last eight hours would’ve left any normal person in need of a Xanax, Valium—something prescription-strength for sure.
The grind and hustle and blood were his norm. For him, it was the downtime, the mundanities of everyday life where others thrived but he struggled.
He opened her door. Startled, she jumped, gaping up at him.
She’d been through so much, he’d do whatever possible to make it easier from here.
Squatting beside her, he rested his hand on her jiggling knee until she settled. “We should go.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles.
She nodded, and a resigned calm fell over her.
He gathered the bags from the backseat. The slight weight made his side throb. Willow closed the door and took a couple from his hands. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have let her carry anything, but today broke all the rules.
Speckled blood stained the front of her shirt. Her right cheek and throat were pink from the ordeal. Once they were underway, she’d be able to clean up.
Ushering Willow with his arm, they hurried to the boat. As they cut across the backyard, headed for the dock, a neighbor playing with her ivory toy poodle spotted them. The middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes and picked up the small fluffy furball, which began barking at them. Clutching the dog to her chest like it was a baby she was trying to soothe, her laser-like scrutiny intensified.
Gideon scooted Willow to his right side, keeping his arm low over the hole in his jacket, and waved with his left.
“Hi. I’m John.” He plastered on his perfected quarterback smile. Sometimes charm and flashing his pearly whites were the best weapons for a situation. “Matt was kind enough to let us take her out for a couple of days while he’s away.”
“Oh, okay.” The woman returned the smile and waved. “Have fun. The weather is supposed to be gorgeous this weekend.”
“Thanks. Enjoy your evening.”
The older woman set the dog on the grass and tossed her pooch a toy. Gideon let out a tense breath. Good thing that hadn’t blown up in their faces.
They hustled onto the boat. He pulled away from the dock and steered down the Occoquan River. Immaculate yards and tricked-out patios with huge decks and outdoor kitchens stretched along the bank.
Once they hit the intersection with the larger Potomac River, he let his lungs relax, took a deep breath, and settled into the captain’s chair. “Can you hand me the med kit?”
Willow set the backpack on the floor to grab the kit. He slipped out of his jacket and grunted, peeling off his T-shirt, careful not to smear any blood. Plenty already on his abdomen. He didn’t need more in other places.
When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her gaze touring his torso. An odd look swam in her glazed eyes, as if she vacillated between curiosity and pity.
Pity was the worst. He never wanted anyone feeling sorry for him, and he’d rather scoop out his eyes with a rusty spoon than see it in anyone else’s. Not since he was eight, when one of his mom’s boyfriends busted his jaw. It’d taken two plates, twelve screws, and six weeks to heal.
He held out his hand for the kit, willing to trade a kidney to know her thoughts.
She glanced at his abdomen and set the med case in his palm. “The gauze is soaked.”
“You should go out on deck. Get some air while I take care of this.”
“Take care of it?” Incredulity washed across her face. “You’re going to clean the wound and stitch yourself up while driving the boat?”
“Yep.” Wouldn’t be easy, but he’d done it before. More than once. Well, not while driving anything. “I’ll put the boat on autopilot. If you could keep an eye out for obstacles, that’d be good.”
Her eyebrows ratcheted up and her jaw unhinged. “That’s crazy. You’re going to stop the boat, and I’m going to help you.”
“It’ll be messy. Not just the blood. The sight of soft tissue can be too much for some.” And he’d rather not put her through that.
She snatched the kit from him. “Tell me what to do
and I’ll do it. You’re not alone.”
23
Potomac River, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 4:30 p.m. EDT
The last time he let a woman take care of him in any capacity—Maddox not included—it had ended up being one of the biggest regrets of his life.
Gideon shook his head. “I’ve stitched up others and myself so many times, I should be an honorary medic.”
“You’re hurt because of me. Let me help you.” The unadulterated look of entreaty on her face sent the strangest sensation rolling through the pit of his stomach. “Please, Gideon.”
Her eyes shone with a resolve that wouldn’t take no for a response. Not many people would be willing to do what she proposed, and fewer still could stomach it. Her offer meant more than he’d care to admit. Against his better judgment, he nodded.
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
“Put this in the squeeze bottle.” He gave her a packet of salt. “Fill it with water to flush out the wound.” A saline solution was better than alcohol or hydrogen peroxide, which could damage the skin and delay healing. “And I need an extra four ounces of plain water.”
While she scrubbed her hands at the sink, he shut the engine and laid out everything from the med kit. Damn it, he was out of gloves and thread for stitches, which meant they’d have to use the skin stapler.
She hurried to him with the other supplies. He stared at her, looking past her stained blouse, the loose red hair flowing around her shoulders, soiled legs, scuffed shoes. Past her haunting beauty that had hooked him and wouldn’t let go. She exuded such an alluring warmth.
Tension shivered through him, rippling deep to that cold pit in his gut.
The ugliness that was his job drained him, sucked the soul dry, leaving him a wretched husk on a good day. But the way she made him feel—the fact that she made him feel anything at all—was nothing short of a miracle.
“Maybe asking you to do something that’ll give you nightmares isn’t a good idea.” With this shitstorm she had to contend with, he didn’t want to add to her troubles. “It’s okay if you want to reconsider.” No way he’d blame her. “Besides, I don’t have gloves.”
