Valley of Shadows and Stranger in the Shadows: Valley of ShadowsStranger in the Shadows

by Shirlee McCoy

  It didn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, Miranda followed Hawke back into the Austin’s apartment.

  “You search the living room. I’ll take the bedroom.” Hawke disappeared down the hall and Miranda went to work. She had no idea what they were looking for, but she searched anyway, rifling through books, leafing through opened mail that lay in a pile on an end table. There was nothing suspicious, nothing unusual.

  “I don’t see anything in here.” As she spoke, a sound came from the corridor beyond the closed apartment door. Miranda’s heart leaped and she hurried toward the bedroom and Hawke.

  He was kneeling in front of a bureau, looking at a piece of paper, but rose to his feet as Miranda entered the room. “What’s up?”

  “There’s someone out in the hall.”

  “Probably someone returning to his apartment.” As he said it, he grabbed what looked like a packet of letters and some old photographs from the drawer. “But we’d better take the back way out just in case.”

  “Back way? What back way?” Miranda was almost afraid to hear Hawke’s answer.

  “Right here.” He unlocked a window, opened it, shoved out a screen and gestured Miranda over. “Come on.”

  Miranda peered out the window, saw a wrought-iron fire escape. “Wonderful.”

  “It could be worse.”

  A loud crash sounded from down the hall, and Miranda jumped, her eyes meeting Hawke’s.

  “Go!” He growled the words and Miranda obeyed, clamoring through the open window and onto the fire escape, her hands slippery on the cold metal, her body humming with adrenaline.

  She didn’t hear Hawke following her and didn’t waste time looking to see if he was. Whoever was coming in the apartment wasn’t being subtle about it and Miranda had no intention of sticking around to find out why. She raced down the fire escape, ran around the corner of the building and kept going, not sure where she was headed, only knowing she had to get away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Slow down, babe. People are starting to notice us.” Hawke grabbed Miranda’s arm and forced her to walk, shortening his own stride to match hers.

  “Are they behind us?” Miranda’s voice shook, but she looked almost calm, the pulse beating rapidly in the hollow of her throat the only indication of the terror she was feeling.

  “If they are, they’re staying back.” He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, but saw only the crowd of tourists and business people rushing to their destinations.

  “But they could be there.”

  “They could be.”

  “I was hoping you’d disagree.”

  “Sorry, babe. I call it like I see it.”

  “You found something in the apartment, didn’t you? Something that’s convinced you Austin is the leak.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He smiled, but the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, alarm bells screaming that their pursuers were close.

  “Come on. This way.” He yanked Miranda into an alley, running now, keeping a few steps behind her, knowing that his body was poor protection from a bullet.

  “Here!” He yanked her into a small fabric shop, the Indian proprietor taking in his and Miranda’s appearance.

  “Can I help you?” His English was precise and clear, his unhappiness obvious.

  Hawke ignored him, moving through the store quickly, then into a back room, the man following along and complaining the entire time. A back door led out into another alley, and Hawke hurried Miranda into it. “Just a little farther. We’re close to where I left the motorcycle.”

  “How close?” Miranda panted the words, her breath heaving with exertion as they ran full-out, her shorter legs moving twice as fast to keep up the pace.

  “Really close.”

  “Did we lose them?”

  “No. We just bought a couple minutes. Here we are.” He nudged Miranda down a side street teaming with tourists and lined with vendors selling brightly colored hats, silk fans and fruit. Hawke wound his way through the crowd, his hand on Miranda’s shoulder, his muscles tight, his skin prickling with awareness. Danger wasn’t far behind them. He knew it. He could only hope the crowd would keep it at bay long enough to get Miranda to safety.

  The street where he’d left the motorcycle was quiet, only a few locals and tourists wandering from shop to shop. Hawke hurried Miranda to the motorcycle, everything inside him saying they needed to get out of Chiang Mai now.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home.”

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Mine.”

  “In Bangkok?”

  “Mae Hong Son.”

  “Where is that?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, babe.”

  “Maybe if you gave more answers I wouldn’t have to.” She climbed onto the motorcycle behind him, her hands wrapped around his waist, small and warm and more familiar than they should have been after only a few days. It seemed they’d known each other much longer than that; a bond had formed between them, one that spanned more than a few dozen hours, a few shared moments and a common goal.

  Hawke shook his head, denying the thought. There could never be a bond between people as completely different as he and Miranda.

  He turned the ignition, starting the motorcycle just as two men rounded the corner of the street, their gazes scanning the area and settling on Hawke and Miranda. A flash of metal warned Hawke seconds before the pavement exploded just feet away from the motorcycle.

  Miranda screamed, her fingers digging into his sides as Hawke gunned the engine and headed toward the approaching gunmen.

  “Are you crazy? You’re going to get killed!” Miranda shouted the words, hoping to penetrate whatever crazed fog Hawke was in.

  “Keep your head down and hold on.” His shouted reply did nothing to ease the horror that squeezed the air from her lungs, and cut off another scream.

  She could see the men clearly—their tan complexions, their dark, cold eyes, the grim determined expressions on their faces.

  Their guns.

  They took aim. Fired. A bullet whizzed by. Another slammed into the sidewalk. Someone screamed, the sound echoed by another and another. People dove for cover, hiding behind cars, diving onto the pavement, protecting themselves in whatever way they could.

  But Hawke didn’t seem concerned about protection. He just kept going, driving straight toward the shooters, determined to run them down, accelerating so that wind tore at Miranda’s hair and stung her eyes, nearly blinding her. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t force herself to look away from the horrifying tableau.

  The men dove for cover as Hawke raced toward them, their guns firing, the bullets going wild. Miranda was sure that at any moment Hawke would slump forward, blood streaming from a bullet wound, the motorcycle crashing onto the pavement and skidding to a stop. She expected to feel the impact of a bullet tearing through her own flesh, and wondered if it would throw her off the cycle. If she would even be alive to find out.

  Then they were rounding a corner, putting a building between themselves and the gunmen, and the sound of screams, of gunfire, of panic disappeared under the chugging rumble of the motorcycle.

  Shock kept her silent. That was the only explanation Miranda could think of for not saying what she was thinking—that Hawke Morran had almost gotten himself killed. Minutes passed as buildings and shops gave way to houses and thick grassland. Terraced rice fields gleamed in the sunlight, attended by women wearing sarongs and straw hats. Dark clouds darkened the horizon, giving the world a sinister atmosphere despite the bright sun shining in a brilliant blue sky.

  Everything seemed sinister. The man using water buffalo to plow a field. The thatched huts that stood o
n spindly legs above thick green foliage. The women walking along the side of the road, baskets held close to their bellies or perched on their heads. All had the potential for hidden danger. Another attack could come from any direction at any time and Hawke might very well run right into it again.

  Miranda’s heart beat faster, her body shaking with fear she no longer seemed able to control. A few scattered buildings dotted the landscape, signs jutting up from paved parking lots filled with buses and cars. Hawke pulled into one, stopping the motorcycle next to a gas pump and filling the tank.

  Miranda could feel his gaze as he worked. She knew he was studying her but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  “You’re still shaking.” He pulled her off the bike and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her head against his chest as he murmured something in Thai, his voice so warm, so filled with concern, she wanted to dive into it, eke out all the comfort it offered.

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “But it’s over now and you’re safe.” His hands smoothed down her hair and rested on her waist, his fingers tracing patterns on her back.

  “I’m safe, but you almost got yourself shot trying to run those men down. For what? Revenge? Would it have been worth it if you ended up dead on the street?”

  “Is that what you think? That I was trying to run them down?” His arms dropped away and he took a step back, all the concern, all the warmth gone from his voice.

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Is that the kind of man you think I am? One that would risk your life to carry out a vendetta?” His eyes were storm-cloud gray, his expression shuttered.

  Did she? Over the past few days Hawke had never done anything to jeopardize Miranda’s safety. At times when he might have abandoned her, he’d stuck close, slowing down to accommodate her even when that meant risking his own safety. “Not my life. Yours. And I just thought that in the heat of the moment—”

  “In the heat of the moment you thought I would trade your safety for revenge? That’s supposed to make me feel better?” He spit the words out, disgust curling his lip and hardening his jaw.

  “But you rode right toward them. You could have just turned and driven away.” Her words were a lame attempt to justify what she’d believed, but even as she spoke them she knew they had no weight, no meaning.

  “And have you shot in the back while we rode away? I took them by surprise. They were expecting retreat. I attacked. It was enough to get us to safety.” He climbed back on the motorcycle as he spoke, his shoulders stiff, his tone harsh.

  “I—”

  “Get back on the bike. We’ve got hours to go before we make Mae Hong Son.”

  “Hawke—”

  “Get on the bike.” He bit out each word, anger making his scar stand out stark white against his dark skin, his gaze so cold and implacable that Miranda knew the conversation was over.

  She climbed on behind Hawke, putting her hands on his waist. He tensed beneath her touch, his muscles unyielding as he started the engine.

  Miranda was sure he’d pull back out onto the road, but he drove toward one of the many vendors set up in the open stalls instead and called to a young woman selling wide-brimmed straw hats. She hurried over, carrying a hat and a scarf made of red Thai silk. They bantered back and forth for a moment before Hawke exchanged a few coins for the hat. As soon as the woman walked away, he turned in his seat and faced Miranda with an expression devoid of emotion. “You’re getting a sunburn.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He ignored her comment, turning his attention to the hat, pulling the silk over its crown and pushing it through slats in the straw on either side. When he was finished, he placed it on Miranda’s head, tying the silk snugly beneath her chin.

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded, turning away without comment.

  His anger had been understandable. His kindness nearly broke Miranda’s heart.

  As they pulled out onto the road, she felt a loss she couldn’t explain, her stomach sick with the knowledge that she’d hurt a man who’d been doing everything he could to protect her. She wanted to apologize, but the roar of the motorcycle and her own guilt kept her from speaking. What could she possibly say that could make things better? How could she possibly explain her thoughts?

  She didn’t know, so she remained silent as the miles passed and the distant clouds moved closer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They drove into the downpour, a heavy sheet of rain slapping Miranda’s shoulders and pinging off the pavement. Where everything had been dry, there was now half an inch of water, the fields and road swimming in it. Miranda thought Hawke would press on, driving through the sudden onslaught.

  Instead he pulled the motorcycle to the side of the road. “Those trees will provide some cover. Let’s go.”

  He got off the motorcycle, motioned for Miranda to do the same, then started across the field, heading toward two distant trees whose thick fronds provided a canopy of sorts. Leaves and branches weren’t going to do much good—Miranda was already soaking wet—but pointing it out would be a waste of time, so she followed Hawke, the world reduced to slashing rain and green grass, gray skies and splashing puddles. Ankle-deep water sloshed against her legs as she walked, seeping into her shoes, socks and jeans until she felt waterlogged, her legs heavy, her body moving in slow motion. The idea of stopping where she was and sitting in the wet grass while the rain poured down appealed a lot more than continuing toward the trees.

  She kept going anyway, her feet sinking into mud and muck, her nose filling with the loamy scent of wet earth, creatures scurrying in front of her, bugs, rodents and birds taking flight as she moved toward them.

  Finally, she made it to the trees, ducking under low-hanging leaves and into a relatively dry patch of earth and grass. Hawke had the motorcycle parked near the trunk, and was crouching in front of his pack, rummaging through it.

  He looked up as Miranda entered the shelter, his silvery eyes unreadable. “As soon as the rain stops, we’ll get back on the road.”

  “How long do you think that will be?”

  He shrugged, turning his attention back to the pack. “Fifteen minutes. An hour. More. It’s hard to say during the rainy season.”

  “I’ll pray it’s less time rather than more.”

  Hawke didn’t comment, just pulled a packet of papers and photos from under his shirt, wiped the moisture from them and wrapped them in a plastic bag he’d pulled from his pack. When he was finished, he closed the pack and held it out to Miranda. “Use this as a pillow and rest for a while. We’ve got another five hours of driving ahead of us and I don’t want to have to stop again unless we have to.”

  The words were curt and Miranda took them for what they were—a not-so-subtle hint to stop talking. She wanted to ignore them, wanted to keep trying to fill the hollow silence, but knew being quiet would be the smarter choice. Her words had done enough damage for one day.

  She grabbed the pack, laid it on the grass and dropped down beside it, the ground surprisingly soft beneath her as she stretched out on her side. The patter of rain above, the splash of it beyond the leaves became a quiet lullaby, the humid air a blanket. Miranda’s eyes drifted closed, but she forced them open, afraid to sleep; afraid of what she’d wake to.

  “Let yourself go for a while, Miranda. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  She jumped at the sound of Hawke’s voice, saw that he had moved closer and was sitting with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his damp hair falling across his cheeks.

  Miranda couldn’t see his expression, but sensed a softening in him. If she were going to apologize now was the time to do it. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “It’s hard to think with bullets flying
by your head.”

  “You managed it.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “So you do this kind of thing a lot?”

  “Not if I can help it, but tracking down drug dealers often puts a person in situations he’d rather avoid.”

  “How long have you been working with the DEA?”

  “Nine months. But I’ve been hunting down drug traders for ten years.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “A lifetime.” He raked his hair back, tying it with a strip of leather he pulled from his pocket. His profile was strong, stark, devoid of softness, but his hand was gentle as he placed it over Miranda’s mouth. “Now be quiet and sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  She tugged his hand away from her mouth, holding it as she studied his face, his scar, his long fingers and broad palms, everything about him completely familiar and absolutely foreign. “I really am sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t put yourself in danger without good reason.”

  He shook his head, smiling a little. “Will you spend the rest of our time together worrying more about me than you do about yourself?”

  “Trust me, I’m worried about myself.”

  “Yet it didn’t even occur to you that turning the bike around and riding away from the shooters could easily have gotten you killed.”

  “Given enough time I probably would have thought about that.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it.” He skimmed the knuckles of his free hand down her cheek. “You’ve asked a lot of questions. Now, I have one for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The first night we met, you smelled like apples and cinnamon, so sweet and intoxicating I was sure I must be imagining it. Was it some exotic perfume designed just for you?”

  “I’d been baking a pie. It’s what I do. Bake things.” She was stammering, her face heating.

  “Bake things?”

  “I own a bakery in Essex. Or I did. Now that Justin is gone…”

  “What?”

  “I opened it mostly for him. To give him a place other than the house where he could feel comfortable. We spent a lot of time there together. I’m not sure I want to keep working in a place that holds so many memories.”