Mistaken Identity

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Do what?”

  “Read me so well.”

  “You’re easy to read.”

  “Not according to my ex.” The words were out before she could stop them and she pressed her lips together to keep more from escaping.

  “You’ve been married?”

  “Engaged.”

  “When did you dump him?”

  “How do you know I did the dumping?”

  “Because no guy in his right mind would dump you.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty who would.”

  “Not a point I’m going to argue,” he responded. “So, how long has it been?”

  “A few months.”

  “What did he do? It had to be something big. Lies? Affairs?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about.” She ducked beneath the low-hanging branch of an oak and stepped into the woods.

  “So, both. The guy must have been a royal jerk.”

  “Did you not hear me say I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “I heard. I’m just trying to understand why it’s off the table for discussion.”

  “Because it’s not an easy subject and it’s difficult for someone who hasn’t been there to understand.”

  “You’re assuming I haven’t been there.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yeah. Only I was the jerk and she married me anyway.”

  His confession surprised her and she stopped, the trees pressing in around them, the afternoon filled with the sounds of birds and animals moving through the foliage. “I didn’t see anything about your marriage in the research I did.”

  “You can’t learn everything from computers and newspaper articles.”

  “You forgot televised interviews,” she said in a prissy voice that made her cringe.

  He grinned and she found herself smiling in return.

  “Well, you did.”

  “You’re right. I forgot that I was interviewed a couple of times. I was married before I entered the military and, by the time I was interviewed, it was over.”

  “I shouldn’t ask you what happened,” she said because she really really wanted to.

  “But you want to?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Felicia and I were too young and too different. We got married because I was joining the military and we thought love was the easy kind of stuff you see in the movies. By the time we realized it wasn’t, we were already growing apart. Stuff happened. We were both struggling. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.” He shrugged. “Eventually she found someone else and walked out.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “It was one of the easiest things I’ve ever been through.”

  “Then I guess you’ve been through some tough times.” She ducked under a tree and kept heading in the direction she hoped would lead to the path.

  The conversation had gotten really intimate really fast and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. She was comfortable with Mason. That was one of the things she liked about him. There was never any need to be someone she wasn’t when she was around him. He’d seen her soaking wet, covered in blood, shivering in the cold. Last night, he’d met her in the hallway when she’d left his office to get a snack. She’d known her hair was a wild mess of tangled curls and her eyes dark with fatigue and red from staring the computer for so long, but he’d walked into the kitchen with her and he’d sat and talked while she’d made a pot of coffee and raided his cupboards. She hadn’t thought once about smoothing her hair, changing into something more stylish than old sweats, or putting on makeup to cover the scabbed-over scratches on her cheeks.

  “So have you,” he said, walking behind her, his feet nearly silent on the fallen leaves. “Out of curiosity,” he continued before she could respond, “where are we headed?”

  “The path to the lake. I imagine the view is stunning from there.”

  “It is, but the path is this way.” He cupped her shoulders and turned her a hundred and eighty degrees.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fairly confident,” he said dryly, and she blushed, pushing through thick foliage and making her way in the direction he’d indicated.

  Five minutes later she stepped out onto the path. She had a fifty-fifty shot at turning the correct direction. She turned left.

  “Other way,” Mason said, and she sighed, turning in the opposite direction and walking down the steeply sloping path until it opened onto the beach.

  The lake was breathtaking, the water still and calm, the bright fall foliage reflected on its surface.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I’ve got a little fishing boat tied behind those bushes there. I’ll take you out on the water, if you want.” He gestured to some bushes clustered close to the water’s edge.”

  “That would be great, but I need to get back to work and, if you take me out on the water, that may not ever happen,” she responded, walking to the edge of the water and sitting on the cold, pebbly sand. She didn’t care that water was seeping through her jeans or that her tennis shoes were soaked. If she’d had a year to sit and gaze at the water, look at the trees, listen to the world, maybe she could figure out where she belonged and what she was supposed to be doing.

  “You still haven’t asked me,” Mason said, dropping down beside her.

  “What?”

  “Why your comment was funny.”

  “You’re like dog with a bone.”

  “And?”

  “Go ahead and tell me why it was funny.”

  “Because,” he responded, shifting so that he could look into her face. “You’re good at life, and that’s a lot better that being gifted at a skill.”

  “Good at life?” She laughed but he didn’t crack a smile.

  “At the things in life that matter—relationships, service, compassion. Those are great skills and important gifts. The world would be a darker place without people like you in it.”

  She wanted to make light of the comment, pretend it hadn’t touched that secret place in her heart where all her dreams were tucked away. But she was looking into Mason’s eyes, seeing his sincerity, knowing a compliment like that was the greatest one he could give to anyone.

  “That is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me,” she said, and he touched her face, his fingers skimming lightly along her cheek. His skin was warm and a little rough, and when he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she wanted to turn her head, press her lips to his palm.

  “Then you don’t spend enough time around the right people,” he murmured. He leaned in and, for a split second, she thought he was going to kiss her. For a split second, she wanted him to.

  Then the day changed, the forest going silent, the animals gone. The sun was still shining, the leaves were still bright and beautiful, but the air felt...different.

  Mason noticed it, too. He scanned the lake then the trees behind them. “I don’t like the feel of things. You have your phone?”

  “Yes.” She fished it out of her pocket.

  “Text your brother. Tell him to meet us down here—and to come armed.”

  She texted quickly, her fingers shaking with adrenaline and fear.

  Chance texted back immediately and she tucked the phone away again. “He and Cyrus are on the way. He said to stay where we are.”

  “Where we are makes us sitting ducks.” He stood, pulling her to her feet. “They want you, Trinity. I’ve got no doubt about that. They think they can use you as a pawn to get what they want from me.”

  “You’re assuming someone is here. It’s possible—”

  The crack of gunfire split the air and she was on the ground, Mason covering her, her body pressed into the damp sand. She thought she heard an engine, but she couldn’t hear much past the blood pul
sing in her ears.

  “Listen to me,” Mason said, his mouth close to her ear. “They’re coming down on mopeds. That’s going to make it nearly impossible for them to get a clean shot. We’ve got to make it to the canoe and we’ve got to make it there quickly. You ready to run?”

  She nodded because she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs to speak. And then he was up, yanking her to her feet again, sprinting across the beach, the sound of pursuit growing louder behind them.

  * * *

  They had Trinity’s wallet. They knew who she was. They knew what she did for a living, and they had even more reason for wanting her. Her expertise made Mason expendable. It was a shame he hadn’t thought of that before he’d decided to take a stroll down to the beach.

  He pulled his knife from its ankle sheath, slashing the rope that held his boat to the spindly bushes that grew near the water’s edge.

  “Get in,” he yelled, holding Trinity’s arm as she hopped into the aluminum hull. He followed quickly, shoving away from the shore, moving them out into deeper water as quickly as he could. As soon as he was clear, he prepped the outboard motor, his eyes on the woods. He could see movement, knew that the gunman had almost made the beach. They weren’t out of range of a gunshot yet. Not even close.

  He pulled his Ruger from the holster. “Stay low,” he growled, handing it to Trinity. “Shoot if you need to.”

  He yanked the chord on the motor, praying it would catch quickly. Praying he didn’t flood the engine. It was an old boat. One of the few things he had of his grandfather’s. It had been patched and repaired and used so much that every year he had to make sure it was water-worthy.

  “Please,” he prayed, yanking on the chord a third time as two motorbikes sped out of the trees.

  The water near the hull exploded, the bullet just missing its mark. Trinity fired back and one of the bikes crashed, the rider scrambling up and diving for cover.

  Mason yanked the chord again and this time the engine roared to life, cold water spraying up into his face as he turned the throttle and tried to get them out of rifle range.

  Trinity fired again. Then again. Her head peeking up over the side of the boat as she aimed and then took her shot. She was more accurate than most people would be. A second bike fell sideways, the driver tumbling off.

  The third made it to the water, his body silhouetted by the sunlight. There was something about his stance that screamed military—straight shoulders, solid stance. He had a long-range weapon. A rifle of some sort.

  “Get down, Mason!” Trinity shouted.

  He opened the throttle instead, more water spraying up as the boat bounced along the surface, traveling at a speed that might just keep them from dying.

  He heard the crack of a rifle, felt the impact as a bullet hit the side of the boat and went straight through, grazing his calf before falling into the bottom of the boat.

  “Did he hit you?” Trinity asked, abandoning her post and crawling toward him, the boat bouncing so much she could barely maintain her balance.

  “I’m not worried about me,” he responded as water bubbled into the hull. “I’m worried about the boat.”

  They were taking on water at an alarming rate, the far shore at least three miles away. They might make it halfway there before the boat went down, but halfway wasn’t going to do them much good in water this cold.

  “Do you have life vests?” she asked handing him the Ruger.

  “Under the bench seat. There are two or three.”

  She grabbed them, handing him one and tugging the other over her head, her gaze on the shore and the man still standing there. “We must be out of range. He’s not shooting.”

  “Maybe he’s just waiting for us to sink.”

  “To what purpose? He needs access to your computer system. Killing you isn’t a good way to get it.” She took off one of her shoes and pulled off her sock. She used it to plug the hole. It slowed the incoming water, but probably not enough to make a difference.

  “Is there anything on board we can bail with?” she asked.

  “There’s a tackle box in the stern. I’ve probably got some old bait containers in there.”

  She nodded, her gaze dropping to his calf. Blood was seeping through the fabric of his jeans, but she didn’t comment on it. She crawled through an inch of water, opened the tackle box and pulled out two plastic containers.

  “These’ll do,” she said, calm and cool and completely focused. She handed him one and she used the other, scooping the water at a frantic pace.

  He could have told her that it was coming in faster than she’d ever be able to toss it out, but their only other option was to sit in the boat, waiting to be rescued or to sink.

  He slowed the boat, tucked his Ruger into its holster, his gaze still on the beach. All three men were at the water’s edge, watching and waiting.

  Good. The longer they stayed, the more likely it was that Chance and Cyrus would apprehend them. Mason wanted to have a chat with all three of them, but he especially wanted to talk to the guy who’d fired the rifle. Military. Mason was certain of it, and he had the feeling the guy knew exactly who was calling the shots and paying the bills.

  “We’re going to sink,” Trinity said and, for the first time since the shooting had begun, she sounded scared.

  “Not if we bail faster than the water comes in,” he responded.

  “That,” she said through gritted teeth, “is not a possibility. So how about you feed me some other happy platitude?”

  “You’re a good swimmer?” he offered, and she scowled.

  “This is no time to joke.”

  “You are, and I’m not. If the water wasn’t so cold, a sinking boat wouldn’t be a problem for either of us.”

  But the water was cold and it had already soaked through most of Trinity’s clothes. He pulled her up onto the bench.

  “Stay as dry as you can for as long as you can,” he said.

  Her scowl deepened. “Thanks for the advice, Mason. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Sarcasm suits you,” he responded more to keep her irritated than anything. Irritated was better than afraid.

  “It’s one of my better qualities,” she responded, still scooping the water, her hands blue from cold.

  “Good to know,” he said, his focus on the shore, on the men who were now running back toward their mopeds. Only one was able to get his started. He took off, skirting the shore and avoiding the woods. The two other men ran, following him in what seemed like a desperate attempt to catch up.

  “My brother must be coming,” Trinity said, her teeth chattering as she dropped the plastic container and began splashing water over the side of the hull, her movements quick and about as effective as a summer jacket on a winter’s day.

  They were mid-lake and they were sinking.

  That much was clear.

  What wasn’t clear was how Mason was going to get them out of the situation. Sure, help was on the way, but until there was a boat available, Chance and Cyrus were stuck on shore.

  Which meant Mason and Trinity were on their own for a while longer.

  Just them, the sinking boat and the God Mason had spent a lifetime praying to but had never really expected anything from.

  Maybe it was time to change that.

  Maybe today was the day to pray with the kind of faith his grandparents had had. The kind of faith that saved and sustained people no matter life’s circumstances.

  He needed that now more than he ever had before, because he thought he might survive a half hour in Whisper Lake’s frigid waters, but he didn’t think Trinity could.

  That wasn’t something he wanted to think about. It wasn’t something he wanted to accept, so he grabbed the plastic tub she’d abandoned and scooped two-handed as he prayed for a rescue he wasn’t sure would come in time.

 
ELEVEN

  Trinity had a vivid imagination. As a child she’d spent a lot of time imagining the way she’d die. Morbid, but she’d figured the obsession had come from the loss of her older sister.

  In all those imaginings, she’d never once thought about drowning. Ever. She understood water safety. She always swam with friends. She followed all the rules that had been drilled into her head by her overprotective parents and brothers.

  Too bad none of them had thought to tell her what to do if she happened to be aboard a boat sinking in frigid water.

  Currently she was bailing as if her life depended on it, because it did, and she was telling herself that she wasn’t already freezing to death.

  She didn’t quite believe it.

  She was shivering as violently as she had the night she’d tried to escape by swimming to town, and she wasn’t even in the water yet.

  “I’m closing the throttle,” Mason said, his voice the calm in the midst of her storm. “We’ll take on less water from waves that way, and maybe buy ourselves a couple more minutes.”

  “We might need longer than that,” she responded, eyeing the shore they were moving toward. Was it getting any closer?

  The other shore had certainly gotten farther away. She could see two men moving along the waterline. She assumed they were Chance and Cyrus, but her hands were too cold to check her phone and she didn’t have the time to waste doing it.

  “Yeah. I know.” He eased past her, pulling the tackle box from its spot and grabbing a couple of bobbers from it. “Try to shove one of these in the hole. I thought I might have a patch kit, but it’s not here, so we’ll have to improvise.”

  She’d already done that with her sock and it hadn’t helped much, but she didn’t argue. She took the smallest one and smashed it in with her sock. It didn’t stop the water. She didn’t even think it slowed it, but doing something felt better than waiting around to die.

  She scooped more water as Mason grabbed oars and started paddling. Without the motor running, the waves settled and the water didn’t splash over the sides of the boat.

  A calm approach is the best approach.

  Her father always said that, and Trinity had tried to live by it. Right now, though, she wanted to panic, because all of her scooping and all of Mason’s slow paddling weren’t keeping the boat from sinking. A couple more minutes and they’d be in the water. No doubt about that.