True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  “Super Mario?” she asked.

  “Just trying to deal,” he said, more or less under his breath.

  Spotting a two-story home with stone accents, a two-car garage and a FOR SALE sign in the yard, he steered the SUV into the pristine concrete driveway and killed the engine. “There. We’re just here to check out the real estate.”

  He snagged the bag of medical supplies from where he’d dropped them on the floorboard. As he fished out the bandages, surgical tape and hydrogen peroxide, he tried not to think about how he was about to treat this woman for yet another bullet wound—one that he had no idea how she’d received.

  She sat still and quiet, head resting against the seatback, while he turned in the driver’s seat and began to unwind the towel he’d wrapped around her arm. The metallic scent of blood filled the truck and, swallowing against the surge of bile in his throat, he folded the towel so that a clean, blood-free portion was visible. He drenched that part with hydrogen peroxide.

  “This is going to sting,” he said.

  “I can handle it.”

  Of course she could.

  “How’s the headache?” he asked.

  “Still there.”

  “The same or worse?”

  “It’s starting to let up.”

  He could tell by the pinched look around her eyes that she was lying. Her headache was massive. Not that there was anything he could do about it.

  He went to work on what he could do—cleaning up her injured arm. Three swipes into it, he realized his mind was about to be blown.

  Her skin under the blood was unmarked. Not a bullet wound in sight.

  What the fuck? He’d seen it. Hadn’t he? Or had he seen what he’d expected to see? But, no, there’d been no mistaking the double wounds. And, besides, there was blood.

  As if alerted by his stillness, she rolled her head toward him. “What?”

  “Uh . . . you tell me.”

  Frowning, she angled her head to peer down at her clean upper arm. “Oh.”

  “Oh? That’s all you’ve got?”

  Her forehead creased, and she rubbed at it. “Memory’s gone, remember?”

  “But you get that this isn’t normal, right?”

  “And up until now, everything that’s happened has been normal?”

  “Okay, you’ve got me there. But you did have a bullet wound right here, didn’t you? I didn’t imagine it.”

  “It felt like a bullet wound.”

  “And you’re an expert. Considering.” He cocked his head. “Maybe I should check your shoulder.”

  A roll of said shoulder put three vertical creases above the bridge of her nose. “That’s still there. I can feel it.”

  “Does that make sense to you?”

  “None of this makes sense.” She leaned back in the seat with a weary sigh. “I’m a spy.” She said it with a hint of exhausted wonder.

  “A psychic spy. And, yet, you don’t seem all that concerned.”

  “It sounds too ridiculous.”

  He laughed softly. At least he wasn’t the only one who found everything that was happening unbelievable. “So . . . why hole up until after dark?”

  “It’s easier to swipe a car at an auto-repair shop. Many leave the keys in the cars for customers who are picking them up after office hours.”

  “Funny how you know all these tricks, and your way around Washington, despite having no memory.”

  “Yeah, funny. I’m going to sleep off this headache now.”

  He watched her eyes slip closed and couldn’t suppress the urge to reach out and lightly sweep some stray hair behind her ear. Her skin felt warm and smooth under his fingertips. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  He didn’t realize until he was backing out of the driveway that he’d just touched her, skin-on-skin, repeatedly, and nothing had happened, no psychic trip into his head as she’d promised.

  “Not so empathic after all, are you?” he murmured.

  Unbidden, her earlier statement echoed in his head: I’m a spy.

  His stomach did that free-fall thing where it felt as though he’d taken a running leap off a very tall cliff. She must have taken a hike through his head and hadn’t realized it.

  Otherwise, how could she know she was a spy?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Flinn sliced through the cords binding Marco’s wrists, he winced at the pungent odor of blood—and ground his teeth together to suppress his anger. He should have been taking Samantha into custody right now, not freeing this dimwit. Yet, he couldn’t very well chew the man out. It wasn’t that long ago when Marco had had to cut through Flinn’s bonds after Samantha and Hunter got the drop on him.

  Freed, Marco got to his feet and gave the chair a violent kick. It crashed into the radiator, then landed on its side.

  Flinn smirked. So the he-man wasn’t so stoic after all. “Feel better?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m shocked Hunter was able to even hit you.”

  “It was a lucky shot, sir. Still going to rip him apart next time I see him. Sir.”

  Flinn flashed his most approving smile. Maybe the guy wasn’t all that bad. “Permission to proceed granted.”

  Marco gave a grim nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  Flinn’s phone vibrated in his inside jacket pocket. He fished it out and checked the display, pleased to see his favorite research assistant was calling. He flipped the phone open. “Natalie, tell me what you’ve got on this Mac Hunter.”

  He listened to the brisk shuffle of papers in the background. “He moved to Lake Avalon, Florida, almost three years ago from Philadelphia. Both parents deceased. One remaining family member: younger sister, Jennifer, freshman at Florida State. Hunter has been her legal guardian for the past dozen years. He’s a journalist at the Lake Avalon Gazette.”

  The red flag he’d expected started an insistent wave. A media type finding out about N3 would be bad. Very bad.

  “He seems like an all-around good guy, sir,” Natalie said, a wistful tone in her voice, as though she wanted to date him.

  “We can’t have a journalist knowing anything about N3.”

  “Surely Sam would know better than to—”

  “She has no control over what she does or doesn’t tell him right now. He already knows too much.” He paused, rubbing his palm over the top of his head. “You said Philadelphia? Any remaining family ties there?”

  “None that I’ve found, sir.”

  “Friends?”

  “I’ve run his cell phone and landline numbers, checked his e-mail. He appears to have no close contacts in Philadelphia. He exchanges calls and e-mails most often with his coworkers in Lake Avalon. Sam’s sisters are among his closest contacts.”

  “Is she mentioned in any of his e-mails?”

  “Not that I saw, sir.”

  “Maybe in a way that could be code?”

  “I’d have to study the e-mails. What exactly would I be looking for?”

  “I want to know whether Samantha knew Hunter would be at the cabin and vice versa.”

  “For what purp—” She stopped. “You think Sam was planning to go rogue like Zoe did?”

  “Just take a second look for me.”

  “Of course, sir. Right—”

  A beep overlapped the last word, and Flinn checked the caller ID. Andrea Leigh. Shit. “I have to go. Andrea’s calling. You’re sure you’ve kept this all under the radar?”

  “Most definitely, sir. I haven’t breathed a word to anyone, and I’ve been using my personal laptop.”

  “Excellent work, Natalie. I’m going to reward you when this is all over.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Her pleased flush all but bled over the airwaves.

  Flinn switched over to the assistant director’s call. “Hello, Andrea. How may I help you?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to update me on Agent West.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. I’m in pursuit.”

  “P
erhaps this has become a bigger problem. Do I need to alert the director?”

  “Not yet. We need to tread lightly. A civilian is involved.” He kept the journalist part to himself. No reason to alarm the boss just yet.

  “Fine. But keep me informed. I don’t like playing catch-up.”

  “Will do.” He kept his annoyance at her commanding tone firmly in check.

  A click answered him, and he lowered the phone, his thumb on the “end call” button. He had to concentrate to keep from clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt.

  Bitch wouldn’t be so high and mighty once he had all the power and she had nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sam? Hey, Sam. Want to wake up for a minute?”

  She had to fight to open her eyes and keep them that way. Where was she? Who was she? “What?”

  “We’re changing cars.”

  She focused on the face in front of her—handsome, with greenish brown eyes and dimples that deepened as he gave her a reassuring smile. Mac Hunter. He was unhooking her seat belt.

  She looked around, trying to get oriented.

  She’d been so deeply asleep that she had no idea where they were or what time it was or what they were doing in a crowded parking lot.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “We’re switching cars.”

  She looked around again. “This isn’t—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. All you have to do is get into the new car.” He got out and walked around to her side.

  Too sluggish to argue—all she wanted to do was sleep—she obediently exited when he opened her door. With his hand light at her elbow, his fingers barely making contact with the fabric of the flannel shirt, he steered her into a silver sedan. Within seconds, it seemed, he had her belted in and was spreading his leather jacket over her.

  “Go back to sleep,” Mac murmured. “Everything’s fine.”

  She snuggled into the comforting scent of leather and Mac and shut her eyes, letting the world around her dissolve into something else . . .

  The electrical current arced through her body, hard and fast, turning muscles rigid and bowing her back off the mattress. She fought the restraints at her wrists and ankles, just barely managing to suppress a moan as her vision whited out and a buzz grew in her ears. She was dimly aware of two men standing on either side of her, one in a white doctor’s coat—Dr. Toby Ames—and the other in a standard dark suit reminiscent of the kind Fox Mulder wore on The X-Files. Flinn Ford. Her boss.

  And while she couldn’t focus in on them, or see their expressions, she sensed their intense interest. She was their science experiment. N3 operative Samantha West—new life, new name—a butterfly pinned to corkboard.

  In the distance, she heard one of them say, “Now.”

  Cool fingers brushed over her forearm almost reverently, and everything around her instantly shifted into another time, another life that wasn’t her own.

  Hooray! Daddy’s home from work early!

  I jump up from my Legos—wait till Daddy sees the helicopter I made!—and run for the stairs. I’m careful on the steps, just like Mommy always says, one hand on the railing as I force myself to walk. But it’s hard. Daddy never gets home from work early. Mommy says that’s because he works too hard.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I can see him in the kitchen. He’s still wearing his coat, the long, black one that makes him look like a spy from one of those old movies he and Mommy like to watch. “Daddy!”

  He doesn’t hear me, because he’s suddenly shouting at Mommy. I stop in the hallway and lean against the wall to watch and listen. Daddy’s pacing and yelling. I don’t like it when he yells. It scares me. He’s been yelling a lot lately. And moping. At least, that’s what Mommy calls it when I’m Mr. Cranky Pants.

  “It wasn’t enough that the bastard ran the company into the ground, but now he’s taking me down with him!”

  Mommy sets aside her dish towel and moves toward him, her hand raised to touch his arm. “Slow down, honey. Whatever’s happened now, we’ll work it out. We’ve been okay so far.”

  He smacks her hand away.

  I take a step back, my tummy starting to gurgle, the way it does when I’m upset. I should go back upstairs, but I stay by the wall. Mommy might need me.

  “You’re not getting it!” Daddy shouts into her face. “Not only have we lost everything—my job, my pension, our life savings, the house—but now he’s putting the blame on me. It’s my word against his, and he’s set everything up so it looks like I’m the one who had access to the offshore accounts and looted the company. Do you know what that means? It means prison, Jackie. Prison for me, welfare and food stamps for you and Flinnie.”

  He stops and braces his hands on the counter. I think he’s crying. That scares me more than the yelling. Daddies aren’t supposed to cry.

  “It’s over,” he says in a sad voice. “It’s all over.”

  He reaches inside his coat and takes something out as he turns back toward Mommy.

  Mommy makes that face she made that one time I was running down the stairs toward her and tripped. It was kind of funny afterward, but now it’s not. Now it’s scary.

  Mommy takes a step toward Daddy, reaching out with her hands, and he says, “I love you, Jackie.”

  Then there’s a loud noise, like one of those booms that fireworks make when they explode in the sky. And Mommy falls backward against the cupboards. Something’s on the front of her flowery blue shirt. Something that looks like cherry syrup.

  She falls to the floor. “Mommy!”

  I’m running toward her, yelling her name. She doesn’t look right. She looks sick, like she’s going to throw up any second.

  “Mommy!”

  She sees me and starts shaking her head. “No, Flinnie, no. Go to . . . your . . . room.”

  I fall to my knees beside her. She pushes me away with a cherry syrup–covered hand. “Go to your . . . room. Now.”

  I look up at Daddy, confused. Why isn’t he helping Mommy? She needs help!

  Daddy stands over me. He looks mad and sorry at the same time. Sort of like that time he came home from work and Mommy made him spank me because I’d been bad.

  “Flinnie,” he says. “I love you.”

  He holds out the thing he held out to Mommy. It looks like a—

  GUN!

  “No!” Mommy screams and grabs at my shoulders, pushing me down, shoving me to the floor as she rolls over on top of me.

  That noise bangs again, and Mommy flinches against me. A burning pain stabs into my side, and I start to cry.

  Another bang, followed by a heavy thump. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daddy on the floor beside me and Mommy. He’s not moving.

  “Mommy?”

  She’s not moving, either. Her weight on my back is so heavy I can’t budge. I realize her nose is pressed against my cheek, and I strain to turn my head so I can see her face.

  “Mommy?”

  Her eyes are open and staring.

  I think she’s dead.

  Oh, no, oh, no.

  I start screaming. “Mommy! Mommy!”

  She fell out of the memory that wasn’t hers, back onto the bed in Dr. Ames’ lab. Back to the scene of the science experiment and the aftermath of an electrical current. Her side burned as though scorched by a fireball, and she shifted restlessly, clenching her fists against the pain and restraints, against her reality. Oh, God, she hated her life.

  “Samantha?” A hand gripped her shoulder, gave her a slight shake. “Samantha, can you hear me?”

  She knew that voice, knew it belonged to the man whose childhood memory had just blown her world apart. Flinnie.

  She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, not ready to open them, not ready to acknowledge what she’d seen, what he’d experienced as a child. His unrelenting, cold focus made sense to her now. He’d pursued law enforcement as a career to seek justice, to take down crooks like the one who’d destroyed his family.r />
  “Come now, Samantha,” Flinn said, patient as always. “We need you to open your eyes and talk to us.”

  “What the hell—is that blood?” Dr. Ames sounded alarmed.

  Hands lifted her top from where it lay against her belly. The cotton material clung for a moment, wet and sticky. “Holy mother of God,” Dr. Ames murmured.

  Flinn’s hand on her shoulder tightened. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “She’s got a wound here, a deep furrow, like she was grazed by a bullet. How the hell did that happen? Was she injured when you brought her in?”

  “No. She was fine. Besides, you would have noticed when you hooked up the electrodes.”

  “Where exactly did she go in your head?”

  “I tried to direct her to a time I fell out of a tree as a kid.”

  “Was someone shooting at you at the time?”

  “No,” Flinn snapped. “I was a child.” He paused a moment, then breathed a low “Fuck” in dazed realization.

  “What?” Dr. Ames asked as he pressed a soft pad to the pain in her side.

  She flinched at the pressure, releasing a protesting whimper. She yearned to push them both away so she could turn onto her side, curl around the pain and sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. She wouldn’t even care if she never woke up. All she wanted was sleep.

  “She carried the aftermath of the memory into her own reality,” Flinn said.

  “What?” Dr. Ames sounded annoyed.

  “The electrical shock . . . we expected it would enhance her psychic ability, but this is far beyond anything I ever imagined. Not only did she relive a moment in my history, but she physically bears the scars.”

  “You’re telling me she’s exhibiting a wound that you received in the past?” The doctor’s incredulity couldn’t have been more apparent. “That’s . . . unbelievable.” The pad pressed to her side lifted. “The bleeding is slowing.”

  “Have you seen anything like it with the others?” Flinn’s voice faded as he paced away.

  “No, never. It’s . . . remarkable.” Paper shuffled, as though the doctor flipped through a medical chart. “Agent West’s potential is staggering. When do you plan to send her into the field?”