Finding Lies

by Rachel Lovise

  She glanced at her watch. Nine minutes.

  Twenty minutes later, a trio of sheep had wandered closer, intrigued by the barely moving human and the stationary hunk of metal.

  “Flat tire,” she said to the sheep that had walked up to the bumper of the car. “Nail.” The sheep dropped its head in understanding. “Maybe I should look like I’m trying to change it.” The sheep snuffled and she nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. It’ll be more authentic.” Leah popped the Picanto’s trunk. Before pulling up the floor mat, she scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of Vincente in the field. He’d told her she wouldn’t see him, and she didn’t. Still, she wished he would give her some sort of signal that he was there.

  On one side of the twisting country lane an expanse of ocean stretched to a watery gray horizon, and on the other side a rocky, well-grazed field of a thousand subtle shades of green rolled into the distance, interrupted only by a collapsing lean-to. She suspected that was where Vincente had made camp since it was the only cover in the field aside from a few patches of scraggly trees.

  The breeze picked up, tugging strands of her ponytail over her shoulder. The afternoon rain showers had cleared and a rainbow had formed overhead, its arch weaving through scattered gray clouds and blocks of blue sky. Raindrops still glistened on stalks of grass, and the ground was damp and smelled of clay. She pulled the rain-scented air into her lungs and wished for a camera, wished that she was there to actually vacation. Wished that the fragile peace wasn’t about to be destroyed by violence.

  “Maybe he’s not coming,” she said to the sheep, and even she could hear the hope in her voice. “I mean, what could have held him up?”

  The sheep remained silent, so she turned back to her task. She yanked up the floor mat in the trunk. Beneath it was a hard plastic liner, but no compartment where a spare tire might be stashed. Figuring it must be strapped underneath the carriage instead, she slammed the trunk shut and then dropped to the wet pavement and shimmied underneath the car. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, but she figured a spare tire wouldn’t be that hard to spot. And it wasn’t—because it wasn’t there.

  She scooted out from under the car and stood, brushing off her now damp shorts and sweatshirt. Where the hell was the spare tire that this Ian Haugen was supposed to change? Her cheeks flushed as she had the horrifying thought that European cars might not carry spare tires. What would she do then? She firmly told herself to quit thinking of all the negatives. All she had to do was act casual.

  She wondered what a Syrian-trained terrorist looked like. Because Haugen was Norwegian, she figured he’d at least be blond. He’d also probably be bulky and ugly, with a scar running across his face and the teeth of his victims strung on a necklace. Barring that possibility, she suspected he’d looked like any other average male, and that made what he really was all the scarier. When a wolf looked like a wolf one was prepared for an attack. It was not the same case when a wolf wore sheep’s clothing.

  She glanced furtively at the horizon again even though she knew it would piss off Vincente. Just as she did she heard the soft whoosh of tires on rain-washed roads. She took a deep breath and drew her shoulders back. “Game time.”

  Chapter 6

  A shiny black pickup truck rounded a curve in the road. Leah darted to the center of the narrow lane and waved her arms overhead, praying Ian Haugen wasn’t texting or changing the music. The truck slowed and her pulse skittered. He was stopping. There was no going back now.

  Before Leah could get a good look at the man topping Russia’s shit list, the headlights snapped off and the truck door swung open. A pair of work boots dropped to the tarmac and she caught sight of blond hair over the door before it slammed shut and Ian Haugen was striding toward her.

  The first thing she noticed about him was his size. He was well over six feet with broad shoulders and long legs, and even if she hadn’t already known he was Scandinavian she would have easily guessed by his complexion and bone structure. His hair was the color of wet hay and shorn close, although unlike Vincente there was a noticeable lack of gel. He wore work boots, worn-soft jeans, and a t-shirt with a slogan in Norwegian. His stride was fluid, as if his body were a well-oiled machine. Judging by the definition of his arms, she suspected that was exactly what he was.

  Then her eyes met his, and a strange sensation curled in her belly. He was smiling at her, his teeth a slash of white in a strong face tanned by the sun; his eyes as cool and blue as the coastline. She could tell he was assessing the situation, sizing her up. The creased eyes and lazy grin gave a relaxed and friendly impression, but there was a current of tension running through his body that nearly made the air crackle. He was suspicious, and that knowledge heightened her anxiety.

  This was definitely their man, but she hadn’t expected him to be so . . . attractive. It disarmed her, throwing off the narrative she’d been practicing in her head.

  She lifted her hand in a half-wave, and instead of a flirtatious hello blurted, “Thanks for stopping. I’m having trouble with my car.”

  He halted a few feet from her and she had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. “You’re American.” His voice was deep with a nearly indiscernible hint of accent riding the syllables.

  Leah hadn’t thought about how quickly her own accent would identify her. Afraid her origins would make him even more suspicious, she panicked before remembering Vincente’s advice to stick to the truth. “Yes, I’m from D.C. I’m vacationing.”

  His eyes scanned the horizon and her stomach dipped. Did he know? Had her awkwardness given her away? Oh God. He had to know something was off. She was doing a terrible job. She licked her lips and took a step back. What were the chances she could outrun him? Looking him up and down again she thought, not fucking good.

  Turning back to her he held out his hand. “I’m Ian.”

  Leah hesitated. She didn’t want to shake the hand of an ISIS terrorist, but there was no way she could deny him without sending up more alarm bells than she already had. She slipped her hand into his and his fingers closed around hers, warm and calloused. “Leah.”

  “Leah, what’s the problem with your car?”

  “Uh.” She couldn’t think with his hand holding hers like that. Why didn’t he let go? “Flat tire. And I don’t have a spare. At least I don’t think I do. I looked in the trunk and under the car.” She couldn’t do it anymore. She dragged her hand from his and was appalled when the rough rasp of his skin sliding over hers made her stomach flutter.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “By all means.”

  He walked around the rear of the car and she trailed behind, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder and see if Vincente was coming. Ian glanced down at the tire. “Yup, definitely flat. Can I have your keys?”

  She was about to hand them over when she thought better of it and unlocked the trunk herself. “I don’t think the spare is in here. Or at least I couldn’t find the compartment if it is.”

  He leaned over the trunk and she caught a whiff of something that reminded her of Old Spice and motor oil. He peeled back the carpet and spread his large hands over the floor, feeling for the compartment. Within moments he found a tab she hadn’t noticed and pulled it upward, revealing the donut and a set of tools wrapped in a hard-cased plastic container. Leah felt as if she’d set women back fifty years.

  Ian lifted the donut and kit out of the trunk and the curious sheep nosed over, interested by this new development.

  “The tire kit was there all along,” Leah said, sniffing at the sheep. “Thanks a lot for your help.”

  Ian was already kneeling on the ground twisting off the lug nuts when she spoke. He turned to look up at her, his gaze traveling along her bare legs before reaching her eyes. “Are you talking to me?”

  Leah tilted a shoulder toward the sheep and he let out a surprised laugh. For a moment his expression lightened and it made her forget who he was and why she was there.

  “We�
�ve sort of made friends,” she explained.

  “He’s been keeping you company, then.” Ian dropped the lug nuts into his pocket. “I once had a neighbor with a pet sheep. Her name was Daisy—the sheep, not the neighbor. The neighbor was an old bloke who didn’t have a nice word to say about anyone, but he loved that sheep like it was a pet. Swore up and down it was smarter than a dog.”

  Leah eyed the sheep. Its face and ears were black, its coat white matted wool. It was rather large, and if she hadn’t grown up in Amish country Pennsylvania where she’d been exposed to all sorts of livestock, she might have been afraid of it. The sheep blinked back at her as she looked it over. She couldn’t picture it curling up on a rug in front of a fire like a dog. “I think I’ll stick with dogs,” she said.

  Ian fitted the spare tire to the bolts. “Do you have one?”

  “Me?” Leah snorted. “I barely have time to take care of myself.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I work a lot.”

  “I know the feeling,” he muttered.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No,” he said. “I did as a boy, but I travel a lot now and it wouldn’t be fair.”

  His words jolted her from the easy conversation. Of course he traveled a lot; in fact he’d just returned from an ISIS camp in Syria, and she’d best remember that. Guilt swamped her for having momentarily enjoyed Ian Haugen’s company. She told herself it was no doubt strategic that ISIS had recruited someone attractive, friendly, and easy-going. It made him disarming. Anyone in her position would have forgotten a monster lurked beneath the languid smile.

  Ian’s eyes met hers as he opened his mouth to say something and his body stilled. The absence of motion was so imperceptible that if she hadn’t been hyper-aware of the situation she wouldn’t have noticed. Shit. Had her facial expression somehow given away her thoughts?

  Ian’s eyes dropped to the flat tire he’d propped against the side of the little black Picanto, his gaze zeroing in on the nail. He must have seen it at the same moment Leah did: the nail was poking out of the tire slightly. If she’d actually been driving on it when the puncture happened, the nail would have been fully embedded in the rubber.

  Her throat constricted as his gaze, hard and assessing, returned to hers. In that moment Vincente struck.

  Chapter 7

  Ian sensed his presence a split second before Vincente lunged with the Taser. Ian swiveled to the side, the Taser grazing ineffectively past his ribs and striking the side of the Picanto instead. The weapon clattered from Vincente’s hand to the pavement, but he was already striking a blow across Ian’s back with such force that Leah cringed. Before Ian could react, Vincente hit him in the neck, and then his torso, and then struck another blow, and another. He was raining down punches so hard and fast that Ian had no chance to get off the ground and go on the offensive. Vincente likely would have succeeded in knocking him unconscious if he hadn’t made the mistake of pausing to reach for the Taser. It took him only a split second to swipe the Taser off the ground, but that was all Ian needed.

  Feeling as if she were a spectator in a surreal nightmare, Leah watched in horror as Ian bunched his thigh muscles and threw his body backwards, knocking Vincente on his ass. Both men sprang to their feet with astonishing agility, but Ian was faster. When he finally faced his attacker, his eyes went so arctic that the hair stood on the back of her neck.

  “Sokolov,” he spat. It was all he said before he struck Vincente so hard across the face that blood sprayed onto Leah’s sweatshirt. It was a powerhouse blow that would have knocked her out cold, but Vincente’s head snapped back as if his neck were made of rubber and he responded with a vicious kick that just missed Ian’s knee.

  The two men went at one another with a ferocity that terrified her, trading kicks, punches, and blows that were so fast and merciless her eyes almost couldn’t follow. Their skill was nearly equally matched as they engaged in a deadly ballet of violence, the choreography drilled into them by years of military training. Nearly—as it became obvious within minutes that Ian’s strikes were both more powerful and precise. The Norwegian was unrelenting, fueled by a fury that both frightened and confused her.

  Moment by moment Vincente lost ground, and it soon became apparent to her the fight wasn’t going to go his way. Vincente must have realized it as well, because he slipped a punch past Ian’s defenses, splitting the Norwegian’s lip, and took off into the field with Ian hot on his heels.

  Leah stood there for a full thirty seconds before she was able to force any part of her body to move. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” she chanted when her mouth unfroze. She had no idea what she should do next. Should she call the police? She didn’t know the Scottish version of 911, didn’t even have a cell phone. There wasn’t a car in sight, and the closest human life was sitting down to dinner at the Orster B&B miles away. There was no way she could help Vincente without getting both of them killed. Feeling helpless, she did the best she could and threw up a prayer for him.

  In that moment it occurred to her that if Vincente was unsuccessful, there was a good chance Ian would come for back for her. Her fingers went numb. She wouldn’t survive twenty seconds at Ian’s hands. She had to get as far away from there as possible. Now.

  Spurred into action by the probability she was Ian’s next target, Leah raced around the front of the Picanto. She was already in the driver’s seat and trying to stab the key into the ignition when she remembered the tire wasn’t on.

  “Shit!” she screamed. Abandoning the keys, she tumbled out the door and raced for Ian’s truck. She hauled herself into the cab and scrabbled through the console for the keys. When she didn’t find them, she flipped down both visors and yanked open the glove box, her hands shaking so hard it took her several attempts to get the latch open. His keys were nowhere to be found, which meant he had them on him.

  As she hit the pavement she had the errant thought that her youth would have been better spent learning to hotwire cars than acing history tests. She looked wildly about. She couldn’t see either of the men, and the hills and ocean stretched uninterrupted on either side of her, peaceful and quiet in direct contrast to the fear thrumming through her body. If she wanted to live, her only other option was to run.

  Her instinct was to take the road toward the bed and breakfast, to protect herself with humanity. But if Ian drove past she’d be easy pickings, so instead she raced for the rocky embankment that divided the road from the shoreline. She was halfway down the slope when she heard a motor crank over, and a second later a high-pitched whine that rapidly grew louder.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Vincente bumping across the hilly pasture, crouched low over the handlebars of a crotch-rocket. Relief crashed through her. She hurried back up the ditch to wait for him, thanking God he’d been smart enough to have a getaway vehicle stashed for them in case things went south.

  Vincente caught sight of her as the tires of the motorbike spit mud and grass in an arc behind it. Then the bike hit the pavement, wobbling before Vincente regained control, and shot forward in a streak of black. He was coming at her too fast to slow down. Afraid he might strike her by accident, Leah jumped out of the way and watched in stunned horror as he blew straight past her.

  Her eyes followed the motorcycle in disbelief as its single red taillight disappeared around a bend in the road and the whine of the engine grew faint.

  He’d left her.

  He’d had someone hide the bike as an escape for himself and then he’d left her to deal with an antagonized ISIS psychopath.

  She turned her head in the direction from which Vincente had come, praying Ian had stumbled and broken an ankle in the field. No such luck. He stood nearly a hundred yards away, his gaze hot on her.

  She turned and ran.

  Instantly she lost her footing on a loose rock and slid down the embankment, scraping her knees. She sprang to her feet and sprinted harder than she ever had in her life, but the wet sand sucked at her r
ain boots and the rocky shoreline hindered her progress. Her breath came out in sharp, panicked pants. Fear was an almost palpable taste on her tongue. There was no doubt in her mind that if she didn’t escape she would die. She watched the news, she knew how brutal ISIS was with its victims—it wouldn’t be pretty.

  She risked a look over her shoulder. He was gaining on her faster than she would have thought possible; he was so close she could see the sweat on his brow. He was going to catch her within the next few minutes and then—no! She wasn’t ready to die. There had to be a way. There had to be.

  The waves crashed against the rocks a few feet away and she had a flash of inspiration. What if she dove into the ocean? No doubt he was a strong swimmer, but maybe he wouldn’t want to risk being dashed against the rocks or contracting hypothermia from the freezing northern waters by going after her. As for her, she’d rather drown than suffer at his hand.

  She skidded to a halt and wrenched off her rain boots, hopping on each foot as she did. Then she threw them behind her, stripped off her sweatshirt, and waded into the water. The rocks were sharp and slimy beneath her feet, the water breathtakingly cold. Immediately her teeth began to chatter and goosebumps raced up her bare arms.

  “Get back here, you fool!” he shouted. He was close, but she didn’t look back. Instead she took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface.

  The temperature of the water nearly stole the air from her lungs, but she pushed forward anyway, scissoring her legs and letting the tide pull her out as her feet left the ocean floor. She resurfaced and cut the water with a freestyle stroke. As a child she’d learned to swim in a still, muddy pond at her grandfather’s house in Pennsylvania. She’d loved swinging on the knotted rope and splashing into the water during the short summer months, swimming until her little body, tanned by the sun, was depleted of energy.

  This was nothing like that.

  The ocean current was stronger than she ever would have guessed, the water colder and the waves rougher. She knew there was no sense in fighting it, so she let the current tow her outward, focusing on keeping her face above water as wave after wave swelled and crashed over her head. More than once the frigid waters sucked her under, and each time she kicked herself to the surface fueled by nothing but adrenaline and the desire to survive.