“Good. That’s good. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding. You know, because I’m—”
“Married. I got it, Olivia.” His tone was brusque.
“Right.”
There was a long pause—a heavy, thudding silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Any idea where to go now? We can’t wait for your friend anywhere in town. It’s not going to take long for the police to find those CNI guys.”
“Probably not. They’re unlikely to talk, though. They’ll make up some story about being mugged.”
“They kind of were,” he pointed out, nodding at the pile of wallets, weapons, and keys in the footwell.
“That’s fair. Anyway, yeah, I know a safe place. Marielle will meet us there.”
He side-eyed her. “You can’t call her, Olivia.”
She bristled. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“It’s Lieutenant Commander Obvious, actually. I never made it to captain.” He grinned at her. “And I’m sorry—I forgot who I was talking to.”
She couldn’t suppress her smile. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t. So where to?”
“My family has a lake house about forty minutes from here, outside Shenandoah Falls. You know the area?”
He nodded. “I’ve passed through it.”
She wasn’t surprised. It was less than an hour from Potomac, and it had some of the best rafting, fishing, and hiking in the state.
“It’s closed up for the season. Well, it’s closed up pretty much all the time. Nobody uses it. No Wi-Fi. No cable. I don’t even think there’s a landline anymore. I haven’t been there myself in years.”
“It sounds like a great place to lie low. You sure your friend will find it?”
She thought back to the encrypted message she’d lipsticked on the bathroom mirror. “Positive. Elle will know where to go. She’s been there once before. I had a … um … my bachelorette party there.” She studied her hands.
“I thought the bachelorette was supposed to totter tipsily through Georgetown or Nashville or wherever wearing a strapless dress, tiara, and sash?”
She shrugged. “This one went fishing, made a bonfire, and played board games. I mean, there were cocktails.”
He gave her a long look. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Olivia Santos?”
She smiled mysteriously. No reason to tell him that the whole thing was her outdoorsy maid of honor and cousin Chelsea’s idea. She’d flown back from Mexico City with no idea what was in store. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then quirked her mouth.
“We should go. I imagine by now someone’s looking for this car.”
He turned the key, and the Porsche sprang to life.
“You’re right,” he told her over the purr of the engine. “When we stop for groceries and gas, I’ll pick up a burner phone and reach out to Omar. I didn’t want to involve him, but he can bring us a less distinctive car and take this baby back to his sister.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed distractedly, flipping through the wallets for some hint of what the CNI wanted with her.
She didn’t expect to find much, if anything, but she couldn’t keep looking into Trent’s warm hazel eyes without remembering the feel of his lips on her neck and his hands roaming over her hips. And he’d made his feelings clear: it had meant nothing.
Trent gripped Marie’s leather-covered steering wheel with such force his palms ached. It was the only way to distract himself from the image playing over and over in his mind. Olivia’s exposed throat, arched back, and those damned blue eyes, dark with desire, looking up at him.
You’re a fool, Mann. She’s wanted by the CIA. The FBI. And the CNI. Oh, yeah, and she’s married to some Mexican millionaire who has a private plane.
He needed to see her through the immediate danger she faced then forget she existed. She’d go back to her jerk of a husband, and he’d go back to Potomac to beg Jake not to fire him. He really was a fool.
He hit the gas harder than he’d intended, and the force flung Olivia back. Her head bounced off the headrest.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
After a long moment, she pointed to a billboard. “There’s a little market coming up on the right. It’s not Whole Foods or anything, but they’ll have the basics.”
He squinted at the sign. “Will Merle’s Market have cheap cell phones?”
She shook her head. “If they have cell phones, they’ll definitely be the cheap kind.”
“Good enough.” He cleared his throat. “So, this code you and Marielle use—how hard is it to break?”
“For a code cracker? It’s not a challenge. For some random woman in the bathroom? It’s just a bunch of numbers scrawled in lipstick. Elle and I used it to send internal messages when we were trainees. You know, we couldn’t have our cell phones on us during training.”
“Sure.” He waited.
She sighed. “Fine. I wrote ‘lake house’ backward, replacing the consonants with their number in the alphabet.”
“What about the vowels?”
“We count the vowels separately, backwards. So where ‘a’ would be ‘1,’ it’s ‘5.’”
He bobbed his head from side to side. “Then lake house is … 4-19-1-2-8 4-11-5-12?”
“I’m impressed. You just did that in your head?”
“I’m more than a pretty face.”
“Clearly.”
The air grew thick again. He coughed. “What about ‘y’? Is it a vowel or a consonant?”
“Just like in English, sometimes it’s one, and sometimes it’s the other. So it’s a zero when it makes the ‘why’ sounds, and a ‘25’ when it’s ‘ya.’”
“That’s a pretty solid code. Surely more than you needed to plan happy hours?”
“There weren’t a lot of women in our class. The hazing was … there was a lot.” Her face closed and her shoulders stiffened. She might as well have been wearing a blinking neon sign that said this subject was off-limits.
He could imagine what she and her friend had been subjected to. Carla hadn’t had the easiest time either.
“Gotcha.”
“There it is.” She pointed to a dilapidated cabin with a dirt parking lot. “Maybe we should stick to prepackaged goods.”
“Ya think?” He pulled around behind the shack and put the car in park but left it idling.
She started to unbuckle her seatbelt, but he shook his head. “No. If they’re looking for anyone, it’s probably you, not me. You stay here.”
He grabbed a baseball cap emblazoned with Leilah’s logo from the floor and whacked the dust off it. Then he jammed it on his head, pulling it low over his eyes. “If someone rolls up, you go. You hear me? Floor it, and leave. I’ll catch up with you at your house.”
“You don’t even know where it is,” she protested.
He turned and hooked one finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I’m serious, Olivia. If something happened to you ….” He let out a long, shuddering breath. “I’d never forgive myself.”
She leaned in close. “You’re not responsible for my safety, Trent. I can take care of myself.”
I can take care of myself.
The last words Carla ever said to him, echoed back in Olivia’s voice. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he yanked open the car door and ran around to the front of the store, his heart hammering in his chest and his pulse pounding in his neck.
13
They circled the lake and approached the house at a crawl. As the car bumped over the unpaved drive in the near-total darkness, Olivia wrapped her hands around the to-go mug and focused on keeping the coffee from jostling out of it.
When was last time Mateo had been as kind to her as the near-total stranger in the driver’s seat? Years. It had been years since he’d shown her even the slightest regard.
When Trent emerged from the market juggling two paper sacks fu
ll of groceries and a takeout coffee, she assumed he’d gotten it for himself. But, no, he’d handed it to her and said he realized they’d left the pub before her coffee arrived. The small, kind act had sent a wave of raw emotion crashing over her.
She didn’t understand her response. Sure, the gesture came at the end of a grueling, adrenaline-fueled day. But she was a trained CIA officer. She should be able to maintain her composure. And, yet, a lukewarm cup of the weak grocery store coffee nearly brought her to her knees.
Maybe it’s the man, not the coffee.
She was still reeling from that kiss in the alleyway. She hurried to remind herself that it meant nothing. Still, she took a breath and said, “I asked for a divorce.”
Beside her, Trent shifted his attention from the dark road, lit only by the Porsche’s headlights, and turned to study her.
“You asked your husband for a divorce?”
She shook her head. “No, I asked the Agency. I didn’t realize when I married Mateo that they would expect me to spy on his business. I don’t know if that’s what poisoned the well or if we just weren’t well suited—too many cultural and personality differences, maybe. But our relationship soured pretty quickly.”
She paused to gather her thoughts, and he jumped in. “I heard how he spoke to you. I take it that wasn’t out of the ordinary?”
“No, it wasn’t. Things have been bad for a long time. Last year, I told the Western Hemisphere Desk that I was planning to leave Mateo. The answer came back that I was operationally forbidden to do so.”
“Forbidden?”
“Right. My status in the country would be in question if I were no longer married to a Mexican national. And, of course, my access to QL inside information would evaporate if I divorced Mateo. I was told I couldn’t compromise my assignment.” She stared down at the coffee in her hands.
Trent was silent for a long time. She continued to look at her hands.
Finally, she glanced over at him from under her eyelashes. His jaw clenched and a muscle in his cheek twitched visibly. He gripped the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. He was the picture of repressed revulsion and anger. Not that she blamed him. She felt the same way about herself.
Seeing his reaction played out on his face, though, filled her with shame and regret. She wished she could reverse time, unsay the words. Since she couldn’t, she settled for urging the car forward faster, bouncing her leg up and down as if that might speed things up.
After what seemed like hours, the headlights finally washed over the house, lighting up the wide front deck. He brought the car to a stop and twisted to look at her.
“Where should I park?”
“There’s a paved carport underneath the deck out back. It’ll be out of sight and protected from the elements there.” She pointed between two maple trees. “You can’t see it, but there’s a small path to the back deck right between those trees.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“Trust me.”
“Okay, hold on.”
She steadied the coffee cup with her left hand and gripped the door handle with her right as the Porsche bucked and jerked over the rutted ground. He eased it under the deck and killed the engine but left the interior lights and headlights burning while he checked the display on the inexpensive flip phone he’d purchased at Merle’s Market.
“You can’t possibly have a signal.”
“I don’t. I wanted to make sure the text I sent Omar from the store’s parking went through.”
She thinned her lips. She had objected to the text at the time, and it still concerned her. “A call would’ve been better.”
“Maybe so, but I didn’t have time for a conversation, and he never answers anyway. I don’t think the longitude and latitude coordinates for this house are going to mean anything to anyone who manages to intercept a text to a DEA agent’s phone,” he reminded her.
“Okay, that’s fair. But why are you so sure they’ll mean anything to him?”
“Same reason you’re sure your friend Marielle will understand your message. He’ll know.” He said it with conviction and reached to switch off the lights.
“Hang on. Leave them on until I get the spare key.”
She jumped out of the car and raced across the grass to a lamppost near the stairs to the deck. The Porsche’s halogen headlamps sent a wash of light over the patch of lawn. She circled the lamp, counting the rocks that circled the base of the post. Just when she began to worry that someone had removed it—Chelsea or one of her uncles, maybe—she spotted it. Gray and brown, weathered, craggy. A perfectly realistic rock. Too realistic, almost.
She crouched to pick up the stone and turned it over. She removed the plastic cover to reveal the hollow compartment that held two keys. One to the house; one to the shed. She replaced the rock and jogged back to the Porsche.
“Got it,” she called.
Trent killed the engine and reached into the minuscule back seat, if you could even call it a seat, for the groceries. She drained the last swallow of her coffee and stretched out her arms. “I’ll take one.”
He handed her a bag and locked the car. “Lead the way.”
Olivia bustled around the house, turning on lights and opening some of the big floor to ceiling windows to air out the musty, closed-up smell with a blast of chilly night air. Trent frowned at how exposed they were. Surrounded by deep, dark forest and towering trees, the glass-fronted house was lit up like a display box in the moonless night. He peered through a window and saw nothing but black sky, black land, black water. At last he caught a glimpse of silver shimmer on the lake below.
Nobody knows you’re here. Remote is good.
He walked from room to room, memorizing the layout. He stopped to study a framed photo of a pair of tanned preteen girls jumping from a tire swing into the lake, long braids swinging.
She came up beside him. “That’s me,” she leaned in to point to the taller, blonder girl, and he caught a heady whiff of her rich, spicy shampoo. “And that’s my cousin, Chelsea.”
He eyed the freckled, fresh-faced girl in the photo. “Are you close?”
“We were the only two girls out of over a dozen cousins, so yeah. Plus, I’m an only child. Chelsea was like a sister to me.”
“Was?”
A small shrug. “There was no big falling out. We just took different paths. And … she didn’t like Mateo.”
Who would?
He was about to say something understanding but her face shuttered closed and she walked off, making a vague excuse about finding some towels and washcloths.
He tried to imagine how it must feel to be trapped in a loveless marriage by your own government. Uncle Sam had demanded plenty of sacrifices from him. But what Olivia had given was so much more personal. Private. Intimate.
Lonely—that was the word he was searching for. How lonely to be forced to stay in an empty relationship with no way out. In that one aspect, at least, the implosion of her career and cover was a blessing—she had been handed her out. He wondered if she’d see it that way.
He meandered through the rest of the house and found her in the big, open kitchen. A pot of water boiled on the stove, sauce simmered, and she chopped an onion. She’d lit a big pillar candle that sat on the island. The light reflected off the wall of windows and danced across her face.
She glanced up at him. “I’m starving, so I figured I’d get dinner started. Hope you’re in the mood for spaghetti.”
His stomach growled, and he realized how long it had been since he’d had a meal. “Sounds great. What can I do?”
He washed his hands at the sink and turned, expectant, and waited for her to give him a task.
“First, can you close the windows? It’s getting chilly in here.”
He walked around the first floor, shutting and locking the windows. He peered out into the darkness but saw only his reflection bouncing back at him. He frowned and returned to the kitchen.
“Done. Now what?” He shook
off the vulnerable, uneasy feeling that settled over him when he looked out into the dark woods.
“Want to make the meatballs?” She pointed with the knife at the ground beef, sausage, and bread crumbs laid out on the counter.
He rolled up his sleeves and began to shape the meat. They worked in silence and moved in tandem, shifting and stepping back to make room as if they’d choreographed a routine. She slid a pile of diced onions into his mixture and turned in a graceful motion to preheat the oven. It was a warm, domestic scene—if you ignored the CNI agent’s handgun she’d placed in easy reach beside the cutting the board.
He nodded approvingly. Knowing that she was also armed and prepared took some of the edge off the dark night. She bent and opened a wine chiller set under the cabinets and held up a bottle of Chianti.
“This has been here forever, but it’s my dad’s. He only buys the good stuff. What do you think?”
He eyed the wine and considered. The last thing he needed to do around this woman was loosen his inhibitions. And, from a mission standpoint, alcohol was always a bad idea. It made a guy slow to react and sleepy. But then, again, it had been a hell of a day. One glass with dinner might help take the edge off.
As he opened his mouth to answer, the crash of breaking glass filled the air. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to the floor. They crouched behind the island and listened to the crescendo of plate glass windows shattering. In the distance, the repeated crack and echo of gun reports sounded.
He flicked his eyes in her direction as he pulled his gun. She snaked her hand up to the island and grabbed the other weapon. Her blue eyes sparked with electricity and she cocked her head, listening hard.
“It sounds like two shooters,” she whispered.
He held his breath and listened. Crack, crack. The reports overlapped—faster than one person could fire.
“I think that’s right.”
“We should try to get to the car. We’re sitting ducks here.” Her voice was calm, emotionless.
He reached up and switched off the stove burners. No need to set the place on fire. She crawled to the oven and turned it off.
Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1) Page 8
