by Regan Black
“You weren’t my original target.”
“Good to know.” Though she waited, he didn’t elaborate as to why he’d been running across the reservation. “I sat with you those first two nights.” And he’d mumbled about some strange, impossible things during his fever. “You’ve clearly been through some rigorous physical training.”
“I’ve been through something all right,” he muttered. “It’s not all clear to me just yet, but every instinct I have says I should be dead. They expect me to be dead.”
“Who is they?”
“Better if you don’t know,” he said, hiking on.
It didn’t take long for her to realize he was over the worst of his mysterious symptoms. He asked her questions about why she’d been out in the field alone and expressed a convincing interest in her work as a photographer.
The relatively normal conversation made the time pass quickly, though she had to hustle to match his stride now that he was eager to leave the area. There was no doubt both his eyesight and hearing were far better than hers. He navigated the area as if he’d been the one born here and often turned, claiming to have heard a sound that was simply part of the background to her ears.
They came over a rise and the campground she’d made her base for this assignment came into view. The end to this bizarre situation in sight, she started forward.
“Wait.” Owen caught her arm in a gentle, firm grasp.
She couldn’t ignore the tingle his big palm and long, callused fingers created or the sweet, shivery response that danced along her skin. “What’s wrong now?” To her eyes, everything looked the same as when she’d left.
Releasing her, he stretched out on his belly, eyeing the campground. “This isn’t where you were camped three days ago, when I crossed your path.”
She didn’t want to know how he knew that detail. “No. It’s where I left my truck and extra gear. We need to get you to the clinic and it’s too far to hike without supplies.”
“Any other RV places like this one?” His gaze roved over the sprawling campground.
“Not on this side of the interstate,” she said.
His golden eyebrows flexed into a frown. Was he planning an assault or did he see a risk that was invisible to her?
“You lead,” he said. “Just don’t go directly to your campsite.”
“Why not?”
He aimed a cool stare at her. “Hope, if there is a problem I want time to get you and any other bystanders clear.”
His penetrating ice-blue gaze stirred a strange fizz that bubbled up from her toes. She wasn’t sure if she should blame the sensation on her increasing paranoia or fascination. “All right,” she agreed. “But you might want to remember I’m no slouch in a crisis.”
“I got that.” His mouth curled up at one corner.
“Want your gun?”
He shook his head and then swiped at both leaking wounds. Standing, he took her hand in his and adjusted his stride so they walked casually toward the campground as if they’d always been a couple of carefree nature-lovers.
She drifted on the whimsical fantasy of how it might feel to have a real lover to hike with, to talk with about nothing in particular. Someday she’d find the right man to come home to after her long, lonely assignments. A man who understood the tightrope she walked between wilderness and civilization, between her native ancestry and the modern world.
His big palm tensed suddenly, nearly crushing her smaller hand. “Owen?”
“It’s nothing,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just getting used to the noise.”
She couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. His grip eased, only to tighten again as they reached the nearest camp sites.
“Damn it.” He tilted his head, reminding her of animals trying to assess the direction of a potential threat. “They’re here.”
She still had no idea who ‘they’ were, but when Owen pulled her around a mint-green tear-drop camper and kissed her hard, she went with it.
*
Owen had a split-second to decide how to mitigate the risks as information flooded his system. A burly, redheaded man he recognized from the proving grounds, a man who would never be mistaken for a casual weekend outdoorsman, had turned their way. He would be part of either a two-man or four-man team.
His enhanced senses let him know this little trailer at Hope’s back was empty and could be either a diversion or hiding spot. If the tracker they’d planted on him was working, they would have come at him long before now.
Above all, his instincts clamored for him to protect Hope. If the men hunting him saw her, she’d never survive the day.
So he kissed her. In the part of his head processing survival, it had cropped up as the best option. Logical. Winging it was the only advantage he had left.
Neither the man in the gray suit nor any of the teams in or out of the lab would expect him to be with anyone. They’d trained him to follow orders to the letter or die trying.
Owen had definitely caught her off guard, her mouth and body stiff with shock at first. Then she was kissing him back, her tongue a not-quite-shy query across his lips before he parted his lips and answered that subtle plea. She linked her hands behind his head arching her body close as he changed the angle and lost himself in the pulsing heat of the moment.
How long had it been that a kiss left him feeling like a scrawny teenager again? Kissing Hope jacked up his heart rate, left him breathless with need. The scents of the fire and last night’s storm clung to her hair. It took phenomenal willpower to keep his hearing tuned to the search closing in on them.
Fumbling, he found the latch for the door. Pulling her close, he opened the door behind her and then nudged her back. “Get inside and stay there.”
She licked her lips, her eyes wide, and he nearly followed her in, to hell with the trouble tapping at his shoulder.
“I can call—”
“No,” he cut her off. “They’re monitoring everything.”
“Owen. Talk to me.”
“I will,” he promised. “Trust me, Hope. I know what I’m doing. I’ll come back for you as soon as it’s safe.”
He pressed a hard kiss to her lips, slipped the knife from its sheath at her waist, and pushed the door closed between them before she could argue. If he could have locked her inside, he would have done it. She’d saved his life when she should have left him for dead and he would not repay that kindness by letting the ruthless Unknown Identities team capture her.
With the drug out of his system, details of his recent circumstances were returning to his mind like popcorn bouncing around. He could pick the lies from the truth now and the way he’d been manipulated filled him with a cold, bitter rage. The program name had come back to him as well as his own name. The court martial and conviction for a murder neither he nor his friends committed. Then the fog-blurred time in the lab, the testing and training, and the bizarre new senses he possessed.
He’d thought all of it was tied to the drug that kept him in that haze, but as he stalked the UI team, planning his attack, he realized those new skills were part of the man he was now.
Good.
Owen moved away from Hope’s hiding place, weaving between campsites and listening to the redhead gripe about the mission.
“This is bullshit,” Ginger said. “Almost forty-eight hours of lousy campers and s’mores and no sign of him.”
“Be patient,” came the reply. “Prime area for shelter and supplies. I’d stop here if I got hurt.”
Owen wanted to cheer that his enhanced hearing allowed him to pick up the full conversation over the comm link in Ginger’s ear. He waited for others to chime in, but it seemed only the two men were watching for him to pass by this area.
“Pointer doesn’t stop,” Ginger chided. “Intel says he was off the charts on stamina. He missed the ex-fil and Messenger hit the kill switch.”
What did that mean?
“Shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.”
&nbs
p; Eyes open or shut wouldn’t make any difference, Owen thought, crouching in a shadow as Ginger turned. They were working the campground in a familiar pattern and for the first time, Owen was grateful for the brutal training sessions UI preferred.
“He’s not here,” Ginger groused. “I’m telling you he’s dead, just like he’s supposed to be.”
“Until we have a body, we keep looking. I’ve cleared the sites on this end, come on back.”
Owen trailed along. Cleaner all around if he could take care of the team in their own campsite. Less risk for witnesses and collateral damage.
Ginger’s boots bit into the gravel path as he walked the perimeter. “Then let’s give them a body. If they get what they want we can get the hell out of here.”
The other voice called Ginger a few choice names and Owen agreed, though he wasn’t sure if the insults were due to the idiotic idea or because they were on a comm link monitored by UI. Either way, it appalled him to think an innocent man might die so this team could return to what they considered civilization.
Clearly aggravated, Ginger stalked back to an RV and opened the door. “We need someone tall, y’know?” he continued. “We can burn away the rest, but Pointer was a tall son of a bitch,” he said as he opened the door.
Owen pounced on the opening. “A little taller than you.” He drove his knife through the top of Ginger’s shoulder as he shoved the dying man into the RV and let the door slam behind him.
The man died almost immediately, slumped between the narrow counter and table, an oath on his lips and a small blood stain on his shirt. A string of curses and threats aimed at Owen came through the dead man’s comm link. Owen paused, listening. Then he smiled at the sound of running feet as the second man raced back to the RV to confront him.
His smile faded when the door opened and he recognized the second man storming in. They’d been pitted against each other in training time and again. Everyone at UI called him Bruce, because he fought like Bruce Lee. His small compact body was deceptively lethal. Owen had seen him deal fatal blows to trainees on more than one occasion, including the last friend he’d had before his memories were erased by the drug.
Bruce’s focus wasn’t distracted by memory or hate. He drove Owen straight back through the narrow kitchen on an impossible surge of speed, and managed to get a foot into Owen’s face. Turning with the blow, the worst of the powerful kick missed, but it connected enough to throw off his balance. The knife skittered across the floor and under the table as he fell. Bruce executed a wicked takedown and with both hands landed hard strikes to the sides of Owen’s head, followed by a series of punches to Owen’s torso before he could buck the smaller man up and off.
Owen caught Bruce’s ankle as the smaller man scrambled to his feet. He yanked hard and got enough leverage to pin him. Size, stamina and reach were often negated by Bruce’s powerful, lightning-quick strikes. The limited space of the RV hampered Owen even more. He took a knee to the kidneys and more fists to his face as he struggled to get the upper hand.
“Where is the kill switch?” Bruce demanded as Owen dodged another blow aimed at the side of his head.
“Right ear.” The stoic, female voice that replied had been in Owen’s ear during his last operation. The job that had gone off the rails when he’d spied Hope on his run to the rendezvous.
Owen plowed a fist into Bruce’s jaw, knocking out a tooth. The man’s body went lax under him, but having seen Bruce fight, Owen wasn’t fooled. He drove a knee into Bruce’s belly and then wrapped his hands around the man’s neck, squeezing. Bruce’s eyes popped open and Owen saw true fear as he squirmed and fought to survive.
Owen couldn’t allow that. If Bruce lived, the UI team would eventually find Hope and kill her. Blanking his emotions, he squeezed harder, leaned in with all his weight on straight arms. Frantic, refusing to die, Bruce wriggled and rocked, hands grasping high and low, searching for any advantage against the death-hold.
The gunshot startled Owen, abused his ears as a single bullet strafed his side. He’d never expected Bruce to bother with a gun. A moment later the body finally went limp under his hands. Windpipe crushed, Bruce’s lifeless hand fell to the floor, dropping the pistol he’d fired.
“If anyone can hear me,” Owen said close to Bruce’s comm link, “You can pick up your dead from the tribal police.”
Recovering his knife, he ran. He had to get Hope out of here before the noise of the fight and gunfire drew a crowd.
Chapter 7
In Hope’s mind the worst fifteen minutes of her life kept shifting and sliding like an avalanche scrubbing away the side of a mountain. Being chased by Owen had been surpassed by nearly killing him. The uncertainty of waiting for him to deal with the people looking for him had been eclipsed by seeing him return, face battered and a deep, scorched furrow across his hip where a bullet had come too close to its target.
His eyes had brightened when he saw she’d stayed. Something between relief and satisfaction had moved across his face, charming her as he escorted her as quietly as possible to her campsite and truck. The triumphant smile was gruesome, twisted by a heavy blow that left him with a split and swollen lip. Ugly colors would soon cast shadows along that gold-dusted jawline. More kisses would have to wait a while, she thought with some regret.
Logically, she’d never be able to explain why she suddenly cared so much for a man who’d nearly killed her. Since he’d come out of the fever, clearly a different man, her attraction and curiosity were impossible to ignore. She already knew her heart was in jeopardy here, and in the hands of a dangerous man, but intuition told her to stick with him. Regardless of how or why their paths had crossed, a new awareness deep inside kept insisting she was exactly where she needed to be.
While she’d waited for his return, she searched the camper for supplies. After refilling their water bottles and canteen, she stuffed a bag of cookies and a jar of peanut butter into her pack. Finding a first aid kit under the sink, she took that as well and left some cash on the counter to cover the replacements.
Once she was sure they were clear, she’d call the campground and have them use her credit card to pay for the mint-green camper’s stay as well. Right now, she was set on finding medical attention for Owen. Though he kept cracking jokes, he needed more than the first aid she could offer. She feared the safest place to spend the night would be out under the stars. She wouldn’t put him through that until she knew the full extent of his injuries.
“I’m fine, Hope.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“True enough.” He used the towel to blot at the worst of it again. “It should stop soon.”
“Not if the past few days are any indication,” she murmured.
Of course he’d heard her. “I think I’m through the worst of it. Whatever they put inside me as a kill switch didn’t work. Obviously. Based on what you’ve told me, I’m guessing whatever poison they used got washed away by the creek when you took me down.” He flipped down the mirror on the visor. “I look like hell, but I actually feel pretty good.”
It was a lot to take in. Every new detail he shared while she drove made her wonder what this covert group was really up to and what it meant for him. And her. Was there anywhere to turn for help?
“I can hear you worrying.” The words came out a bit slurred due to the swelling at his mouth.
“You can?” How and why would they give a super-soldier telepathy?
“No, not really.” He reached over and rubbed her shoulder. “It’s all over your face. I’ll be fine.”
“You need a doctor,” she insisted. Alcohol swabs were hardly standard protocol for gunshot wounds. “The pain is all over your face.”
He shrugged. “The other guys are worse.”
The other guys were dead. Kill or be killed, he’d explained. He’d said he didn’t mind dying, but it had been the only way to guarantee her safety from the group that had derailed his life for their own, mysterious agenda. Having seen Owen under
their influence, she hoped never to meet any other enhanced operators.
“Will they treat me without calling the tribal police?” he asked. “You’ve pointed out how poorly I blend in around here.”
She didn’t know. “My name carries some influence. I’ll tell them you’re my assistant and you fell while we were out working.”
“Did your last assistant frequently trip and fall into bullets?”
The response startled a laugh out of her. She didn’t mention the clinic would want identification, one more thing he didn’t have. Odds were high the clinic would call the authorities no matter what she said.
Reaching an unmarked intersection, she turned toward the cluster of businesses that made up a tiny town center two miles ahead. “Almost there,” she said.
“I’m fi—” Owen winced. “Slow down,” he said, cupping his hands over his ears.
He didn’t look fine. “What’s happening?” She pulled to a stop on the side of the road. He’d told her the UI doctors had tweaked his sight and hearing. Had the fight exacerbated something else?
“There’s static in my ear.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his skull just above his ears. “Feels like a radio tuned to white noise is pumping straight to my brain.” He pushed out of the truck and bent over, shaking his head like a big dog. “My comm is offline. They shouldn’t be able to mess with me.”
She cut the engine and scrambled across the seat and out of the truck to stand with him. Her hand on his back, felt the tremors in his muscles as he fought something neither of them could see. “The doctors will help.” With any luck, the promise wouldn’t be as empty as it felt.
“Hope.” He straightened, tipped his head to the sky, eyes closed. On a deep inhale and long exhale, the tension eased from under her hand.
She hugged herself as he paced away from her. He headed toward the town, then back again. When he stopped, she noticed he held his breath for a few seconds while he scanned the horizon.
“The sound isn’t inside my head.” He didn’t sound too relieved by the fact. Shuffling off the road into the ditch, he tugged her along with him, and crouched lower still.
