by Joyce Lamb
“I can’t talk with a gun—”
“Have I been impregnated, too?”
“Samantha—”
She pressed harder with the SIG. “Answer. The. Question.” “And then what? You’re going to kill me? The man who saved you when you were a troubled teenager? The man who gave you your life back? A very good life, by the way. Have you ever wanted anything that I didn’t give you?”
“I wanted to see my family.” She hated the break in her voice, the sign of weakness. But, then, her family had always been her weakness. And Flinn had shrewdly used that against her from the start.
“You know that wasn’t possible. Contact with you would have put them in danger. You willingly gave them up when I offered you the opportunity to use your ability working for N3. We’re the good guys, remember?”
“I was eighteen. I didn’t know what I was doing, what I was giving up. And besides, you said I would spend the rest of my life in prison if I didn’t agree to join you.”
“Yes, because you killed a man. In cold blood.”
“It was an accident!” She was helpless to stop the renewed flood of guilt and horror at what she’d done. Accident or not, the man had died at her hand.
“A jury wouldn’t have seen it that way,” Flinn said.
She shook her head, struggling to keep on track. “You’re trying to distract me with old history. Am I pregnant or not?”
“I can’t tell you what you want to know, Samantha, not like this. I don’t trust you to spare my life once you have what you want. So let’s make a deal: We leave here together. We return to N3 headquarters, where you can get the medical attention you need. I’ll answer your questions then. I promise.”
She blinked back tears of frustration. He wasn’t going to tell her anything, and even if he did she couldn’t trust he’d tell the truth. The only way she would get a definitive answer was to find a drugstore and get her own damn test. If it was positive, then she’d go from there. But where? Oh, God, what would she do if . . .
Keep it together, Sam, she thought. Don’t lose it now.
“Samantha, please be reasonable.”
She adjusted her hold on the SIG. She wanted him to know he wouldn’t win. Not this time. “When I walk out that door, you won’t be able to track me anymore. The transmitter has been removed.”
A look of pure concern blanched his features. “That was a very bad idea, Samantha. Don’t you remember what I told you would happen if it was ever tampered with?”
Her heart thumped. What? Oh, crap. Crap, crap, crap. “You’re bluffing.”
“Think about it. I told you that the transmitters all have fail-safes in the event an operative is kidnapped and the captors remove it. You must remember that.”
What the hell was he talking about? He had to be trying to manipulate her.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he went on urgently. “You have to untie me. We need to get you back to N3 before the fail-safe kicks in.”
“No! There is no fail-safe. I would remember that.”
His gaze bore into her, his concern, even if it was fake, intense. “Within ninety minutes of the removal of the transmitter, a powerful drug will be released into your bloodstream that will wipe your memory clean. It’s designed to prevent our agents from being tortured for information. You can’t share information that you no longer have.”
“You’re lying.” Oh, God, he had to be lying. He had to be.
“I’m not lying.” He jerked at his bonds, his face reddening. “Damn it, Samantha, I’m not lying!”
She backed out of the kitchen and ran to the front door. His frantic voice rang in her ears as she stumbled onto the porch. “Samantha! Samantha!”
She saw Mac straighten in the driver’s seat of the SUV, his expression both apprehensive and questioning. Shutting down her doubts, she got into the passenger’s seat and sat back on a hiss of a pain. “Let’s go.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She glanced sideways at him, struck by his concern. He had no idea what she’d dragged him into, no idea that the only way out would be oblivion. “No. I’m not okay.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For the next five minutes, Mac focused on maneuvering around the debris in the road and checking the rearview mirror every three seconds for more bad guys. So far, no one followed.
As the truck rolled to a stop at the washed-out section of road, he considered the water streaming by. It lacked the violent, frothy rush of the night before, but he still didn’t feel confident driving through it, four-wheel drive or not.
“Back up and build up some speed.”
He glanced sideways at Samantha. She was unnaturally pale again, as though she’d lost more blood. The circles under her eyes made them appear a darker blue, the exhaustion in them undeniable.
No. I’m not okay.
She’d said nothing beyond that except an order to drive, that ugly gun of hers still gripped in her right hand. At least she didn’t point it at him.
“We need momentum,” she said, impatient. “If you can’t do it, get out and I will.”
Saying nothing, he threw the truck into reverse and watched the mirror. His leg muscles twitched to gas it, just to show her she hadn’t allied herself with a pussy. Instead, he said, “Brace yourself. It’s going to be bumpy.”
She switched the gun to her left hand and rested it on her thigh, then placed her right against the dash and clenched her jaw.
He switched into drive and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The truck bounced over the mud and rocks, brown water geysering into twin arcs on either side. The violent jolts would have tossed him from his seat if the seat belt hadn’t locked him in place.
When they’d made it to the other side of the washed-out road, he glanced at his passenger. Whitened fingertips dug into the dash, her teeth gritted so tight he swore he could hear them grinding. He didn’t ask if she was okay this time. He already knew her answer: Drive.
The going got easier then. The road debris lightened to wet leaves, mud and the occasional tree limb, though none were big enough to block the way.
To be honest, he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’d just watched a woman kill two goons, and she’d done it with about as much emotion as a palmetto bug. For all he knew, she’d killed Dr. Evil before she’d stumbled out of the cabin. Maybe she’d kill him once he took her where she wanted to go. As vacations went, this one was not going to make the Letterman top ten for good ones.
Eventually, she released her grip on the dash and eased back in her seat on a shaky sigh. The fact that she’d let the sound escape at all surprised him. Maybe she wasn’t as tough as she seemed.
“I need your help,” she said softly.
More surprise. “You need my help. I’m the guy you said was no one back there.”
“I was trying to make it clear that you don’t mean anything to me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She rubbed at her temples as if she had the kind of headache that gripped your head in sharp dragon talons. “Just . . . let me focus for a minute.”
He watched the road and wondered why her explanation hurt his feelings. He couldn’t possibly mean anything to her after only one day. Except he was pretty sure his role as getaway driver was saving her life right about now, not to mention digging himself deeper into a potentially criminal hole he might not be able to haul himself out of.
“What’s the closest town?” she asked. “Mid-sized or bigger.”
He glanced over, noting that she kept blinking as though repeatedly losing focus. Was the blood loss getting to her? “I’m not that familiar with the area, but the last decent-sized town I saw on the way here was Front Royal.”
“Good. Let’s go there. Find a motel, something off the main roads that takes cash, something family-run. No chains that have computer systems. Make up a name. We’re married, and I’m not feeling well. You just want a place for me to rest. Does this SUV have GPS?”
“No. Why?”
>
“Good, that’s good. We don’t have to ditch it.”
“Ditch it?”
“Park in the back of the motel, out of sight of the road, or even a few blocks away if you can. Then just wait until I come out of it.”
“Come out of what?” Aw, hell, that bald bastard had done something to her. Mac knew he never should have left her alone with him.
“I need you to just listen. I don’t have much time.”
“Time? What does that mean? Is there a deadline I’m not aware of?”
“Please, just listen. You don’t have to remember what I tell you. All you have to remember is . . .” She trailed off, in a hurry but also trying to pick her words carefully. “After . . . afterward, you have to touch me.”
He gaped at her. Was she delirious? But, no, her skin didn’t bear the flushed signs of fever. She did look desperate, though. And scared. And that scared him. This woman, who wore the scars from blades and bullets, who shot down two bad guys without blinking—at least, he was still hoping they were bad guys—wasn’t supposed to look scared. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Watch the road.”
The tires on her side hit the rumble strip on the shoulder, and he jerked the wheel to swerve back into the lane. “Shit,” he muttered.
“I’m empathic,” she said. “It’s a psychic ability that allows me to tap into your past experiences. It’s triggered by skin-on-skin contact.”
“Okaaaay.” Great, she was nuts. Dr. Evil was probably the loony police, and Mac had helped the whackjob escape. Damn it, he never did manage to get the important things right in his life. He stole a quick glance at the gun resting on the seat between them, noted her fingers were loosely wrapped around the butt. Making a grab for it would probably rank a ten on the stupid-o-meter.
Instead of responding, she switched gun hands again, then reached over and gripped his bare wrist with chilled fingers. He flinched as much at the unexpected contact as the sharp hiss of air that she sucked through her teeth. He glanced over to see she’d clamped her eyes shut and pressed her lips together. Concentration or pain? Maybe both. He had no idea what she was doing, but he didn’t try to shake her loose, certain he would jar her injured shoulder if he did. As absurd as it was, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.
Then, as quickly as she’d grabbed him, she let go and sagged back with a moan, her head falling back against the seat. “God.”
He stole a quick glance at the road, doing his damnedest to keep the SUV in its lane, then shifted his attention back to her. She’d gone so pale her skin looked waxy. His heart beat hard and fast against his ribs, concern alternating with the urge to park the truck, get out and walk away. No, make that: Run away.
“What just happened?” he asked.
A wince creased her forehead. “Some asshole beaned you in the head with, what, a pipe of some kind? An aluminum baseball bat?”
His foot lifted off the gas, alarm an electric current zipping up his spine. “What?”
“Keep driving.”
He obeyed automatically. How the hell could she possibly know what Skip Alteen had done to him?
“When I touched you just now, I relived the moment when an intruder crept up behind you and cracked you in the skull with a blunt object. You were contemplating a bottle of liquor at the time. Absolut vodka. And thinking about what a loser you are.”
“Jesus.” He couldn’t think beyond that. “Jesus.”
“It’s called empathy.” She sighed, sounding more spent than a combat-weary soldier. “A jacked-up kind of empathy,” she added under her breath.
“How could you—”
“I don’t have time to explain. You just have to trust me.”
“Trust you? You’re kidding, right?”
“I have to tell you some things. Now. Please don’t interrupt me with questions. After I’m done, after I . . . forget . . . you have to touch me.”
“After you forget what?” It was like they spoke two different languages, and neither had even a basic grasp of the other’s.
“The transponder you removed from my shoulder released a drug into my system. It’s going to wipe out my memory. Flinn said ninety minutes, but it’s probably more like fifteen. I have to tell you what I need to know, and after the drug takes effect, you’re going to put your hand on me, skin-on-skin, so I can retrieve the information from you in an empathic flash.”
“Are you sure the drug hasn’t already taken effect? Or maybe you’ve lost too much blood. Because you’re sounding, well, crazy. And not the simple kind. I’m talking bat-shit crazy.”
“You don’t need to understand. You just need to listen. In one hour, maybe two, we can go our separate ways. That’s all I need from you. Two hours. Just give me that then go away.”
Their eyes met. He could see in the dark depths of hers that she truly believed the fairy tale she’d fed him. Yet the prospect of this nightmare ending in as little as an hour . . . well, he couldn’t deny the high quotient of temptation on that. They’d be in the DC metro area by then, too. He could easily take her to a hospital and turn her over to the professionals who wear white and keep a handy supply of sedatives and straitjackets.
He checked on the gun. Her fingers had tightened on the grip, and he had no doubt that if he refused, she wouldn’t hesitate to use that weapon to get what she wanted. He really, really had no desire to end up with a gun pointed at his head, especially by a woman who looked inches from losing it.
“Fine,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She didn’t like the way he watched her, like a cat planning his next pounce.
Sam let her body melt farther into the seat when he agreed. Easier than she’d thought, yet she’d noticed the speculation in his greenish brown eyes before he’d acquiesced. He probably had his own plan—a stupid plan that would get them both killed. But, damn it, she had no choice now but to go with it and hope for the best. Time was ticking away.
Based on the nausea building steam in her stomach, she suspected Flinn had indeed told her the truth about the fail-safe. The drug might be responsible for the piercing headache, too, but her reluctant sidekick’s painful past probably had caused it. Figures she’d end up with a guy who’d gotten violently whacked over the head and not a klutz who’d simply slammed his finger in a car door.
Regardless, she needed to get her thoughts in order so she could tell Mac what she needed to know in a way that would make sense to her after she lost her memory. It was a long shot, but it was all she had.
“You were right,” she said. “I’m an intelligence operative. The man we left tied up at the cabin is Flinn Ford. He’s my boss at N3.”
“N3?”
“National Neural Network. It’s a secret division of the FBI. The agents have psychic abilities.”
He cast a dubious glance at her. “A secret division of the FBI with psychic operatives? How gullible do you think I am? I’m the epitome of the grizzled old newspaper reporter. Without the grizzled and old parts.”
She blinked as she studied him. Grizzled? Not in the least. Handsome, yes. And those dimples . . . my God, they were adorable. She shook her head, then grabbed at the car door to steady herself against dizziness. She had to stay on topic.
“Flinn impregnated a fellow N3 operative named Zoe Harris. I think he’s trying to create some kind of super psychic spy by combining the DNA of two N3 empaths.”
The car’s front end dipped forward slightly as he took his foot off the accelerator. “Holy shit.”
“Don’t slow down. Keep. Driving.”
“Okay, okay. Just chill.”
“I’ll chill as long as you don’t slow down.”
He cranked his speed back up to a non-attention-getting 65 mph. “How did you hook up with these people?”
“That’s not important.”
“Look, maybe I could just take you to Lake Avalon. Charlie and Alex can help you—”
“No!” She bit her lip as a stab o
f longing pierced her chest. She hadn’t seen her sisters in so long. Hadn’t heard their laughter, shared in their joys. Alex was in love, Mac had said. Sam couldn’t even imagine her baby sister being old enough for a serious romantic relationship. Last time she’d seen her, Alex had been a precocious thirteen-year-old, totally enamored of every stray animal she could find.
And, crap, she’d let her mind wander again. Losing focus like this had to be the drug working its way through her system. And it was happening much faster than the ninety minutes Flinn had told her.
“Charlie and Alex can’t help me,” she said, in control again.
“But we removed the transmitter, so Ford can’t follow you, right? Why not just leave it all behind and go home? Your family would love to see you again. They’d find a way to help.”
She rested her head against the car seat and closed her eyes. So tired. So . . . so tired. “I have to find out what he planned with Zoe. She has a sister. She’d want me to . . .” She trailed off, losing the thread. Zoe has a sister . . . why was that important again?
“If Zoe were any kind of friend to you, then she’d want you to be safe. With people who love you. And I know law-enforcement types who can help.”
That snapped her straight. “No law enforcement. No police. No FBI. No CIA.”
“How about DEA? Secret Service? U.S. Postal Inspectors?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
He gave a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Humor . . . that’s how I deal with stress. And you have to admit, this is . . . stressful.” Then he muttered, “Understatement-of-the-year alert.”
She massaged the ache in her forehead with the tips of cold fingers. She couldn’t think straight, her thoughts growing sluggish and scattered, disconnected, as though a kind of numbness deadened the firing of her synapses. It was happening too fast. She had so much more to tell Mac. “I need to contact . . . Sledge.” She used his nickname deliberately. The less Mac knew about other N3 operatives, the better. “He can help.”
“Sledge? As in hammer?”
She couldn’t think of his number, though. Couldn’t even bring forth the first three digits of a number she knew as well as her own. Luckily, she had a backup: “His number’s in my phone.” She glanced around the interior of the SUV. “Where’s my bag?”
