True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  She had. How could she not? How could she possibly remember training when that was going on in her head?

  Outside the ballroom of the ornate hotel, Flinn led her to the elevator, smiling and nodding at the curious women in glittering diamonds and concerned men in impeccable tuxes.

  Alone in the elevator, they faced the mirrored doors. Her tight black dress covered both her arms yet barely reached mid-thigh, and her hair was swept up in a curly ’do that made her look a decade older than twenty. Despite dramatic eye makeup and artfully painted red lips, she looked pale and sick.

  Trapped.

  “What did you see?”

  Flinn’s question startled her, and she shuddered as Jake’s memory was unleashed inside her head all over again.

  “Samantha?”

  “He’s a monster.”

  “Yes, of course. But what kind? I need specifics if I’m going to get us what we need.”

  “It was too much. I felt . . . everything.”

  “That’s the intent. The drugs are doing exactly what they’re supposed to.”

  “I don’t like it.” She started to shake at the remembered pleasure Jake had experienced as he’d slit that poor woman’s throat. Pulses of it lingered between her legs, and revulsion whited out her vision.

  Flinn’s hand tightened on her arm. “Get yourself together, Samantha.” Impatience edged his tone. “Do I have to remind you what’s at stake here?”

  Despair dug brutal talons into her heart. He didn’t have to remind her of the deal she’d made.

  He said nothing more as the elevator opened on their floor. He led her down the hall and used a key card to let them into a large suite of rooms. As he shut and locked the door behind them, he said, “Take off your dress.”

  Her blood froze in her veins. “What?”

  He chuckled at her reaction, genuinely amused. “I want to check your patch. Remember that Dr. Ames said the material is experimental. I need to make sure it’s still properly secured so that you’re getting an adequate, and steady, dosage.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  She shivered as she pulled the dress over her head while he sat in an ornate wingback chair in the corner and watched her. His gaze wasn’t predatory, but she couldn’t ignore the spark of interest she glimpsed. The fact that he hadn’t yet tried to force her into a sexual relationship surprised her. But she supposed there was still time.

  She kicked off her heels before approaching him, preferring to be as non-sexy as possible for his scrutiny.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She braced herself and focused on breathing, just as Dr. Ames had instructed. Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Focus.

  When Flinn’s hand smoothed over her hip, it was cool and dry, how she imagined a snakeskin would feel. Nothing from his past burrowed its way into her head, thank God. Maybe she could do this after all. She simply hadn’t been prepared for the horror of Jake’s mind.

  “Ah, yes, very good work.” Flinn’s warm breath feathered over the skin of her lower back as he leaned in close, as though inspecting a tiny tattoo. “It blends perfectly with your skin tone.”

  “Do I have to wear it all the time?”

  “It’s essential to enhance your psychic abilities. Without it, you would be cast into your target’s memories without the ability to focus on your objective.”

  “It’s just . . . it itches.”

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s preferable to prison, is it not?”

  Goose bumps spread over her body. Sometimes she thought prison would definitely have been better. At least there would have been a point where she’d have completed her sentence.

  Ford sat back with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Get dressed, and we’ll talk about what you saw.”

  She rubbed her arms. “I’d like to take a shower first.” She felt dirty, violated. Interesting, considering she was the one who’d infiltrated Jake’s mind without his knowledge.

  “Make it a quick one.”

  She walked into the bathroom, shut the door and fell to her knees in front of the commode.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mac jerked awake, heart pounding and eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness of the motel room, the vague impression of a loud noise ringing in his ears. What the hell? Had someone walked by the door of the motel room and coughed loudly?

  He checked the red glow of the alarm clock. Four A.M. They’d checked in to a Charleston motel—a nicer one than in Front Royal—and sacked out only an hour ago.

  Sitting up, he flicked on the lamp between the two double beds and squinted at the resulting bright light. The realization that Sam’s bed was empty cleared his disorientation in less than a second.

  Then he heard the noise again. It didn’t come from out in the hall. Sam was in the bathroom, vomiting.

  “Shit.” He tossed aside the covers and got up to drag on his jeans. He left them unbuttoned, more worried now about the silence from the bathroom than the fact that he hadn’t finished putting his pants on.

  Outside the bathroom door, he lightly knocked. “Sam?”

  “I’m okay.” The toilet flushed, followed by water splashing against porcelain.

  “Do you need anything? I can get some ice or ginger ale or something.”

  Instead of answering, she opened the door.

  He stepped back in surprise and took in her white bra and bikini briefs. If it hadn’t been for the pallor of her face and the stark whiteness of the bandage at her shoulder, his brain would have gone right to sex, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not stop until the world ends in bright, explosive color.

  It took him a moment to grasp that she stood just as frozen as he did. Her gaze had fastened on his chest, and as he watched, fascinated, her eyes slowly dropped over his abdomen and down to the unbuttoned fly of his jeans. A pleasant pink began to flush her cheeks.

  Well, hello. Either partial nudity embarrassed her, or she’d just gotten the same electric charge seeing him half-naked as he’d gotten seeing her.

  But then he wanted to knock himself upside the head for being such a dolt that he was more focused on sensual curves and lust than helping the poor woman sit down after tossing her cookies.

  When he stepped back, her eyes widened, as though she realized she’d been staring.

  Join the crowd, baby.

  “Sure you don’t want some ginger ale? The machine’s just down the hall.”

  She shook her head, chafing her arms as though chilled.

  Mac snagged the shirt she’d left at the foot of her bed and helped her into it, careful to avoid jostling her sore arm. Damn, how sexy was it that his flannel shirt smelled like her? Like caramelized sugar and something exotic that he couldn’t identify. Not cinnamon. Maybe nutmeg or allspice?

  Ah, shit, she was trembling. He really needed to focus.

  “Here, sit on the bed.” He led her over, and as she did as he bade, he pulled the thick, dark beige blanket off his bed and settled it snugly around her shoulders, careful to not make contact with any skin. “How’s that? Better?”

  She nodded, burrowing her chin down against her chest. She looked as small and vulnerable as a little kid wrapped in a blankie.

  “Talk to me, Sam. What happened? Did you remember something?”

  Her teeth chattered. “I had a . . .”

  “A bad dream?” He sat across from her on his bed, so intent on her pained expression that he bumped his knees against hers. “Oops, sorry.”

  “S’okay.” She went on shuddering.

  “How about some coffee to warm you up?”

  “It’ll pass in a minute.”

  “How do you know?”

  She furrowed her brows. “I guess I don’t. Sure, make some coffee.”

  Eager to do something, anything, to help, he pushed off the bed and got to work tearing into the prepackaged coffee filter and tucking it into the basket of the coffeemaker. When his hands jittered, he shook them out, telling himself to chill. She was fin
e. No harm, no foul. It was just . . . Jesus, she was sick. Wounded. Stricken by amnesia. Traumatized by other people’s memories. Hunted by a ruthless madman.

  The woman couldn’t catch a break.

  He filled the glass carafe with water from the bathroom then dumped the contents into the maker. “Should take just a few minutes.”

  He turned to face her, starting to plunge his hands into the front pockets of his jeans only to discover they were still unbuttoned and barely hanging on at his hips. “Oh, damn.” He fumbled with the buttons, flashing her a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

  Her lips quirked, and she glanced away.

  That tiny smile did more to lift his spirits than a 50-yard-line seat at a Super Bowl pitting the Dolphins against the Eagles. “So . . . do you want to talk about it? The bad dream, I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe it’ll help.”

  “Help what?”

  “I don’t know. Help . . . something. It obviously freaked you out enough to make you hurl.”

  One eyebrow ticked up. “Hurl?”

  “Barf. Puke. Blow burrito chunks.”

  She winced at the graphics. “Yeah, I got what you meant. I just hadn’t heard it put like that in a while.” Her forehead creased, and she added, “I don’t think.”

  “I think you should talk to me about the dream. What if there’s something in it that doesn’t make sense to you but does to me? I’m a newshound, you know. I know the odds are a long shot, but you never know.” He stopped, feeling like an idiot for all the words he’d managed to cram into his argument. It was just . . . she made him nervous.

  She seemed to think it over for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was low. “I don’t think it was a dream. I think it was a flashback.”

  Oh, wow. There’s something new. “What makes you think that?”

  “It was . . . so real.”

  His heart started to thump harder as he got up to pour the finished coffee into a foam cup for her. “Creamer or sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  He turned to hand her the warm cup and watched her cradle it in her hands as though savoring the heat it gave off.

  “If it was a flashback,” he asked, “then does that mean your memory is coming back?”

  “Possibly.”

  “That’s great.”

  She simply nodded without saying anything. Decidedly unenthusiastic.

  “It’s not great?” he asked.

  She shrugged her right shoulder.

  A chilled finger of realization trailed up his spine. The flashback had made her violently sick to her stomach, so it couldn’t have been a happy one. “Oh.”

  He lowered himself back to the bed across from her. A long minute of silence went by in which he noticed she had yet to sample the coffee. “You’re not drinking.”

  “I don’t think my stomach can take it.”

  “I thought you wanted . . .”

  She shrugged that one shoulder again. “You seemed to need something to do.”

  “Wow. Am I a lame bastard or what?”

  “You’re not lame at all. You’re very . . . sweet.”

  He smirked at her. “Sweet. Just what every guy wants to hear.”

  Every time a woman had told him he was sweet, she’d dumped him soon after. Not that he thought he would ever get romantically involved with this particular woman. But still. Who could blame him? Sam Trudeau was the most beautiful, most perfectly made woman he’d ever met. She also made him feel . . . things he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protective and curious and energized . . . and way too warm. He couldn’t help but think of seduction and sex when he was near her. And, hell, he wanted to pound that Flinn Ford fucker into the ground. Such violent urges were so not like him.

  “I was at a party.”

  His attention turned outward as she burrowed deeper into the blanket. He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to go on.

  “It was a test. My assignment was to find a particular man at the party and . . . and . . . mine his memories.” Her eyebrows drew tightly together. “I don’t remember that specifically from the flashback. The terminology, I mean. But I recall Flinn saying something about that, about mining memories.”

  “Maybe that’s what you do for the FBI? Use your empathy to mine bad guys’ memories to find out what crimes they’ve committed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, what happened?”

  She didn’t respond right away, as though gathering herself. “I saw a man kill a woman while he was raping her.”

  Mac felt as though she’d thrown a brick at his chest full force. “Holy God.”

  “It was . . . awful. I felt . . . everything. He was enjoying it, and I felt it. The blood . . . was . . . it was everywhere. Oh, God.” Her voice broke, and she covered her mouth with one shaking hand.

  Mac moved fast to rescue the teetering cup of coffee from her other hand. After setting it aside, he sat beside her on the bed and gathered her to him, wrapping both arms securely around her. The quivering of her body just about did him in. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. That guy is probably in prison now, right? If he was your assignment, then you must have helped put him away.” “I don’t think I can do this, Mac. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m here to help you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

  She let go of the handful of blanket she’d been clutching to her chest and dug her fingers into his bare arm. Instantly, she stiffened, and her breath caught.

  He stilled, realizing she must have flashed on what he was feeling and thinking. He hoped whatever she glimpsed didn’t include an image of her naked and under him.

  She relaxed in slow degrees. “I don’t know which side I’m on,” she said softly. “What if I’m on the wrong side?”

  The muscles in his chest clutched painfully. “I highly doubt you’re the bad guy, Sam.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You’re forgetting that I know your sisters. Charlie and Alex are the best people I’ve ever met. They’re good, really good, people. And you’re made of the same stuff.” He rubbed her back through the blanket in slow, soothing circles.

  She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

  “I know you are. Just sleep, okay? I’ll be right here the whole time.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  It took only a few moments for Sam to fully relax in Mac’s arms, but when she did, she dropped into a deep sleep, only to find herself furiously packing . . .

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Sam hesitated as she reached for the pile of underwear in the dresser drawer. She’d feared this from her younger sister. “No, Charlie, you’re not. I’m sorry.”

  “If you’re worried about me carrying my own weight, you don’t have to. You know I can keep up.”

  Sam turned to face her, unable to stop the flinch at the sight of the fading bruises on her sister’s pale face. Their mother had done that to her. Sam could still feel the heavy thuds against her own flesh and bones as she’d absorbed her younger sister’s memory into herself. The rage surged all over again, and Sam had to turn away to focus on controlling it. She could—and would—prevent that from happening to Charlie again. She just needed time.

  “Sam, come on. Please?”

  “Who’ll look after Alex?”

  “Dad,” Charlie said. Quick, as though she’d anticipated the question.

  Sam snorted as she tossed the underwear into her duffel. “Like he looked after you last week?” It still irked her that their mother had suffered no consequences for hitting her middle child. She would, though. Soon. The thought of how Sam would make her pay raised the fine hairs on her arms.

  Realizing Charlie hadn’t responded, Sam tossed a quick glance her way to see her picking at an imaginary piece of lint on the hem of her T-shirt.

  “Alex doesn’t do stuff that pisses Mom off,” Charlie
said. As if what their mother had done was somehow her own fault.

  Biting her lip, Sam turned back to packing. “Then you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Don’t you want to know what’s up with the photo album? Why doesn’t she want us to see it?”

  Because she has a secret. But Sam didn’t say that. Or mention that she knew what that secret was—and that it would mean the end for their mother’s ironfisted reign as the queen bitch of the house. Both her sisters would find out soon, though. “You need to respect her privacy, Charlie. She’ll share when she’s ready.” When I make her.

  “It’s not like I was snooping. I found it by accident. I needed to borrow—”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain it to me.”

  Charlie flopped onto the bed next to Sam’s half-packed bag. “Where are you going to go?”

  Northern Illinois. Her mother had fled from there. From a small town called Sycamore. Sounded lousy with trees. And cold compared with the heat and humidity of Florida. “I don’t know yet.”

  “You should have a plan. That’s what Dad always says.”

  Dad. Thinking of him nearly crumpled her resolve. Not her dad. Not technically, anyway. A trip into her mother’s head had told her as much, and given her the name of the man who was her biological father. Ben Dillon. She planned to meet him very soon. “I’ll make a plan on the way.”

  “What about culinary school? You’re all set to go in Tampa and everything. Being a chef is your dream.”

  “There are cooking schools in . . . everywhere. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Nana’s going to be mad.” The words seemed to strain Charlie’s already-low voice.

  “I’ll explain before I go.” Sam had a feeling that out of everyone, their grandmother would understand the most.

  “Won’t matter. She’s still going to be mad.”

  Sam gave her sister a smile that she knew looked far more sad than Charlie needed. “You, too?”

  The tears finally overflowed as Charlie nodded.

  The guilt surrounded Sam’s heart like a fist and squeezed. Stoic, stubborn Charlie had never been a crier, and now the tears spilled freely.

  Sam went to her sister and hugged her, clamping her eyes closed against her own emotion. “I’ll be back. I swear I will. And then everything will be better.”