True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  “What about getting a job at the Inquirer instead of that tiny little weekly?”

  That small and trembling voice kills me. “They’re not hiring reporters right now. We need to move somewhere less expensive.” And less likely to turn my kid sister into a juvenile delinquent.

  “Mac, come on. I don’t want to go. My friends are here—”

  “So are mine. But my friends aren’t drinking and driving during a school day while I blissfully hop into the passenger seat and don’t wear my seat belt.”

  She rolls her eyes, so over this. “Nothing happened.”

  “Because that cop pulled you guys over. You were lucky nothing happened. We’ve already learned that bad luck is genetic in our family.”

  She crosses her arms and plops onto the sofa, a recalcitrant child rather than a sophomore in high school. “You can’t make me go.”

  I sit next to her, exhausted by the past year. Mom’s car wreck was horrible enough. And Dad’s dive to the bottom of a liquor bottle still pisses me off to no end. Fucking . . . weak . . . coward. They both left me in charge of getting a teenage girl through adolescence when I can barely summon the give-a-shit to get out of bed in the morning.

  “I’m sorry.” Maybe she’ll give me a break. Just this once. “I don’t see another way. If we stay here . . . I just don’t see how we’ll ever get ahead. You might not be able to go to college.”

  “I don’t have to go. I’ll get a job so I can help with the—”

  “I don’t want you to do that. You’re too young.”

  She rolls her eyes again, in the way only a teen girl can without physically saying, I hate your fucking moronic face.

  But she’s gearing up to relent, and relief tugs at the corners of my mouth. The smile wants to turn bitter. I’m supposed to be on the investigative-reporting staff at The New York Times by now. Guess that’s off the table.

  “You’ll like it in Lake Avalon.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “It’s warm in the winter.”

  She all but pouts. “Scorching in the summer.”

  “Beaches.”

  “Hurricanes.”

  “Sunshine almost every day of the year.”

  “Massive bugs that’ll steal your lunch money.” Her lips twitch. She’s trying not to smile.

  My shoulders relax. I’m going to win this one. Halle-freaking-lujah. “No state income tax.”

  She groans. “Like that matters to me.”

  “It will if it means more trips to Starbucks.”

  “Yeah, like some podunk town in Florida has Starbucks.”

  “Actually, Lake Avalon has a really great coffeehouse. The Java Bean. You don’t need a line of home equity to buy a latte there, either. And the chocolate chip cookies are awesome.”

  She leans her head on my shoulder and releases a soft sigh. “Do they have scones? I like scones.”

  “Sam? Sam!”

  She blinked open her eyes to Mac’s frantic expression, confused by the damp, cold breeze on her face. It took her a long moment to realize he wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore, that the car was parked haphazardly on the side of the two-lane highway. He’d gotten out of the car and opened her door so he could lean in to try to rouse her. Her cheeks vibrated with the vague impressions of his insistent taps.

  “You with me?” he asked, peering into her eyes, his gaze dark but intense under the Toyota’s dome light.

  Nodding, she pressed back against the passenger seat to put distance between them. His body gave off heat like a furnace, but instead of wanting to shrink away from it, she yearned to get as close to him as she could. Instinct, or something—self-preservation? —kept her back.

  “You okay?” He shifted back to a squatting position outside her door.

  The scent of damp decay wafted in from outside, carried on the nighttime sounds of tree frogs, crickets and the distant swish of tires on puddled asphalt. The moon peeked through clouds, high and bright in the sky.

  Her head felt heavy and achy, her vision smudged around the edges. Disorientation stuck to the inside of her brain like wadded plastic wrap, and she had to focus to smooth out the wrinkles. She was on the road, on the run, with Mac Hunter. They were on their way to Charleston to meet Arthur Baldwin, a man who might be able to tell her more about her identity.

  “Sam?”

  She closed her eyes tight, willing away the throb in her temples. “How long was I gone?”

  “A couple of minutes. I was getting ready to call 911. What the hell happened? One second we were talking about you taking a nap, and the next, you were catatonic.”

  She had no idea what to say. She’d gone into his past, relived the moments with his sister as though they’d happened to her. Now, with a clear head and no catastrophe to deal with at the moment, she fully comprehended her psychic ability.

  It’s called empathy.

  And she’d tapped into a very tough conversation Mac had had with his little sister.

  The muscles in her chest constricted as it hit her that he’d lost both of his parents far too soon, and tragically. He’d sacrificed his own hopes and dreams to do what was best for a loved one. How amazing was that?

  “Hey.”

  The soft word turned her head back toward him, and even in the darkness, she could see the depth of his concern. Or maybe it just emanated off him in empathic waves. “I’m okay,” she said.

  “Maybe we should see a doctor.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I’d feel better if—”

  “I was in your head.”

  He jerked back an inch. “What? You were what?”

  “You touched me, didn’t you? Right before I blanked out?”

  “I don’t remember . . . no, wait. Yeah, I did. I touched your hand, and just like that you were gone.”

  “That’s how I told you it works when I was telling you everything I could before I lost my memory. I said it was skin-on-skin contact.”

  He rose to his feet with a crack of knees. “Your psychic ability, you mean.”

  She had to duck her head to see him clearly and was struck by the way his dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, though his eyes remained shadowed.

  When he took a step away from the car, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, she unbuckled her seat belt and got out to stand beside him. “Don’t you want to know what I saw?”

  “Was it something bad?”

  She smiled then, the expression feeling unnatural on her lips. “It was something sweet. Really quite sweet. You and your sister . . . Jenn?”

  He nodded. “Jennifer. She’s a freshman at Florida State.”

  “You were trying to talk her into moving from Philadelphia to Lake Avalon.”

  “That wasn’t sweet,” he said with a snort. “That was hell.”

  When he started to turn away, she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “You gave up so much for her.”

  “Not really. I mean—”

  “The New York Times?”

  He edged back a pace. “Oh. Wow, that’s—you’re creeping me out right now. You got all that from a simple touch?”

  “That’s what I did—do for the FBI. Imagine how handy it must be to find out what a terrorist knows simply by touch.”

  Mac whistled. “No waterboarding necessary.” He cocked his head. “But I touched you right after we left our buddy Marco back at the motel. You were pretty out of it, like you couldn’t stay awake, but I touched you more than once and nothing happened. At least, you didn’t respond as if anything happened.”

  “Maybe it’s erratic. Or maybe the memory drug has messed with my system in other ways.”

  “You had a pretty bad headache at the time. Maybe that interfered with your ability?”

  “Maybe.”

  They fell quiet, and Sam felt again his frustration and sadness from the flashback. Yet his fierce love for his sister—and determination to protect her—had taken precedence. Sam ached for the man who’d sacrificed so much to do what he consi
dered the right thing.

  “I’m sorry you had to give up your dream,” she said.

  His shoulders lifted and dropped with a shrug. “No big. Lake Avalon’s a nice place to live. If you factor out the pipe wrench–wielding psychopaths, that is.”

  The edges of her vision darkened as that memory from his past washed over her again. Weird how she seemed to have more memories about his past than her own. A pulsing ache began in her temples, and she pressed her fingers to both sides and tried to massage it away.

  “Another headache?” Mac asked.

  She nodded.

  “Maybe you’re getting psychic hangovers.”

  Oh, if it could be that easy. “That sounds so benign.”

  “A nap helped then.” He gestured toward her open car door. “You can sleep while I drive. Once we get to the Charleston area, we’ll need to find a place for the night. Unless you want to kick down the Ponzi dipshit’s door in the middle of the night.”

  She laughed at that. And, just as smiling had felt so odd, it struck her that her body seemed unaccustomed to laughing as well. She hoped that was because of the amnesia, and not because her real life was that sad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  You need to find her,” Dr. Toby Ames said. “Time is running out.”

  Flinn noted that the doctor’s tone carried an unusual tinge of anxiety. This was the same man who barely batted an eyelash when a researcher destroyed some recently harvested, and irreplaceable, fetal cells. That had been before the latest developments, though—before the project ended up in the ICU in critical condition.

  “I’m doing everything I can, Toby,” Flinn said into his cell phone. “Relax.” Which was kind of ironic advice, considering the doctor’s call had interrupted his evening of pacing a path into the living room carpet. The latest update on Samantha’s whereabouts—only an hour ago—had been the same: still missing.

  “The more time that goes by, the more difficult it will beto—”

  “I know,” Flinn said. “I’m as eager as you are to get this thing done.”

  “You don’t seem to appreciate the delicacy of what I have to do. The procedure is—”

  “Christ on a cracker, take a breath.” Flinn did the same. It wasn’t like his partner to freak out, and the last thing he wanted to do was irk the man. Without Toby and his ability to use the specialized knowledge they’d obtained from the researcher in San Francisco, Flinn’s hopes for success would take a hit. And that would displease his partners.

  “I’m just worried, Flinn. We’ve lost Zoe, and since Andrea sent Mikayla to Afghanistan, we’ve lost access to her—”

  “I promise you I’ll let you know as soon as I have Samantha in my custody. And I will find her. Mikayla, too. That will just take a little more time.”

  Toby let out a long breath. “Where do you think Sam’s going?”

  Flinn pressed his lips together tight. “The worst possible place. Home.”

  “But you’ve drilled it into her head for years that it’s not safe.”

  “She doesn’t remember that.”

  “Then perhaps we should both get to Florida. We’ll be in position to move quickly once she’s intercepted.”

  Flinn nodded. A good idea. “I’ll have Natalie arrange your flight.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d prefer to remain flexible.”

  “What should I tell Andrea if she asks?”

  “Tell her you’re taking vacation.” For such a brilliant scientist, the man could be dim sometimes. “And don’t worry, Toby. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

  Toby grunted. “The eternal optimist. It never seems to occur to you what will happen to us if we get caught.”

  Flinn grinned into the phone. “Because we won’t get caught, Dr. Ames. We’re on a mission from God.”

  He was still smiling when he cut off the call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sam sat straight up in bed, heart hammering. What was that?

  “It’s just thunder.”

  She turned her head toward the soft voice, blinking against muzziness and almost total darkness. “Where are we?”

  “Motel outside Charleston. Remember?”

  She had a vague memory of falling into bed as soon as she and Mac had entered the tiny room. He’d roused her to clean her bullet wounds and change the bandages, and she must have fallen asleep the moment he’d finished.

  “Everything’s okay, Sam. Go back to sleep.”

  Accepting the soothing explanation, she shifted into a more comfortable position under the warm weight of blankets and drifted back to sleep, into an unfamiliar world . . .

  The bubbles popping in her champagne misted her skin as she sipped from the fluted glass. The music, soft and lilting, complemented the elegant décor. Shiny gold curtains draped to the floor in place of walls, and the flames of dozens of white candles flickered as murmuring partygoers moved by them.

  The political fund-raiser had drawn guests with myriad backgrounds: from rich socialites obsessed with being seen to businessmen hoping to secure favors by openly supporting the candidate.

  She spotted her target near a fountain of melted chocolate, a fat red strawberry grasped between his stubby fingers. As he bit into the fruit, his snake-like eyes darted around the room. Despite his pear shape, he wore a surprisingly well-tailored suit. His scalp gleamed with perspiration through his thinning blond hair.

  She could relate to his nerves. This was her first test. She couldn’t afford to screw it up.

  She focused on breathing slow and deep to control the thrum of anxiety in her ears.

  And decided to get it over with.

  Pasting on a flirtatious smile, she walked over to the mark . . . no, that was her father’s . . . Ben’s word. Flinn preferred “target,” saying it had a mission-centric connotation. A matter of semantics, in her opinion. Either way, someone was going to get screwed.

  “Is that as good as it looks?” she purred as she reached for a plump strawberry.

  The fumes from his aftershave—a blast of something too antiseptic to be sexy—nearly choked her, but she managed to maintain eye contact as she sank her teeth into the juicy berry and hummed her appreciation.

  His gaze fixed on her mouth, pupils dilating. “Hello.”

  She discarded the stem into a napkin and helped herself to another strawberry. “I’m Samantha. My friends call me Stormy.”

  He started to grin, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “My friends call me Jake.”

  Jake the Snake, to be exact, she thought. So cliché for a scumbag. She held out her hand. Here goes. “Nice to meet you, Jake.”

  His cold, clammy hand closed around hers.

  Oh, yeah, there it is, there it is. Ah, yes, yes, yes.

  The pleasure builds, builds, and I shift my grip on her wrists so I can ready the knife. She starts screaming again, fighting, trying to wrench her wrists free from where I’ve pinned them above her head. That’s it, that’s it. I love it when they fight.

  “Beg.” I lean down and breathe it into her ear, emphasizing the command with a violent thrust.

  She whimpers, turns her head away. “Please.”

  “Louder.” Another brutal thrust, sending pleasure singing to the top of my head. Almost there. The knife handle fits my palm like it was made for me.

  “Please!”

  I smile into her terrified eyes. “Your wish is my command.”

  I slash the blade across her throat.

  Blood spurts at the exact right moment.

  She dies with me inside her, and I howl with the power of it.

  “Just give her a minute. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “What the hell happened?” Jake the Snake’s voice carried an unmistakable “I didn’t do anything to her, I swear!” tone.

  She opened her eyes to Flinn’s tanned face above her. She recognized the displeasure that narrowed his dark gaze. “Ah, there you are, Samantha.” His tone was polit
e, concerned. “You gave us somewhat of a scare. Can you sit up?”

  As he helped her into a sitting position, she glanced around, mortified to discover she was on the parquet floor of the ballroom, a small, curious crowd forming a loose circle around her. No wonder Flinn was irked. She hadn’t remained inconspicuous as instructed.

  The fabric of her black dress clung to her right thigh, and she glanced down at the cold, wet spot, wondering what it was. Then she spotted the shattered remains of her champagne glass not far from where she sat.

  “Here, have some water.” Flinn pressed a cool on-the-rocks glass into her hand.

  She sipped obediently, wishing she could make her hand stop shaking so much. But the horror of what she’d experienced in Jake the Snake’s head washed through her, and she had to fight to keep her dinner down.

  “She’s all right,” Flinn said, addressing the crowd in his infinitely charming way. “Just give us a little space, if you don’t mind.”

  The onlookers took their time wandering away, including Jake, who cast a disappointed glance over his shoulder.

  She took several fast sips of the ice water to combat the rising bile in her throat.

  “Let’s get you up,” Flinn said.

  She handed him the glass and let him help her, grabbing hold of his solidly muscled arm to maintain her balance when a queasy spinning swirled through her senses.

  “Dizzy?”

  “Yes.”

  He set aside her water glass then escorted her toward the door, his arm tight around her waist. “Your body hasn’t adjusted fully to the drug cocktail.”

  “I don’t like the way it makes me feel. I’m not in control.”

  “We’re working on the pharmacology. We’ll have to get Dr. Ames to dial this particular incarnation down a notch. We can’t have you passing out before you’ve completed your mission, though I’m certain that with time and practice, you’ll be able to better manage your reactions. I have a feeling you forgot your training as soon as you made contact.”