Valley of Shadows. Shirlee McCoy
you. You say you know him. Does he know you? Your name? Where you live?”
Did he? Miranda was sure he knew her name, and there was no doubt he knew where she worked, he visited the bakery several times a week. It would be easy enough to get her address. “Probably.”
Hawke muttered something in a language Miranda didn’t recognize, the words unintelligible, the frustration behind them obvious.
Her own frustration rose, joining the fear that pounded frantically through her blood. She’d done what she thought was right. Now, she’d pay for it. That seemed to be a pattern in her life. “I own a business in Essex. Lots of people know me. Liam just happens to be one of them.”
“He also just happens to be a murderer.”
Miranda didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen Liam in action; watched him pull a gun on a bound and blindfolded man, had seen the cold determination in his eyes as he’d caught sight of her. She had known then that she was seconds from death. “We need to go to the police and tell them what happened before Liam hurts someone else.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Exactly what I said. I’ve got a phony criminal record. The police won’t believe anything I have to say. You’re with me. It stands to reason they won’t believe you, either.” He glanced her way, his gaze searing into hers before he turned his attention back to the road.
“Why—”
“We’ll discuss it all later.” His tone was curt and dismissive, the kind that brooked no argument.
And Miranda didn’t want to argue. She wanted to let things play out the way they would. Just as she had so many times before. With her sister. Her mother. Her father. Boyfriends. It always seemed so much easier to go with the flow than to fight against the tide. This time, though, the tide was dragging her out into dangerous waters and she had a feeling that if she didn’t fight it she’d be pulled under. “Later isn’t good enough. I want answers now.”
He shrugged, but didn’t speak as he steered the SUV onto an off-ramp.
The neighborhood he drove through was battered, the houses 1970s cookie cutters, every street lined with pickup trucks and scrap-metal cars. Miranda knew the area—a tough, crime-ridden neighborhood on the edge of D.C. When Hawke pulled into a driveway, she put her hand on the door, ready to yank it open and flee, but he grabbed her arm, his hand a steel band trapping her in place.
His breath fanned her cheek as he leaned close. “We’re getting out my side, walking around to the back of the house, getting a new ride and you’re not going to do anything foolish. Time isn’t on our side and I don’t want to waste any of it chasing after you. All right?”
The memory of the gun he’d tucked into his waistband spurred Miranda to do as he said, her heart pounding a sickening beat as Hawke tugged her across the front seat and out the door.
The moon shone bright and yellow in the navy sky and the crisp air chilled Miranda’s clammy skin as Hawke hurried her around the side of a house.
An old garage stood at the back of the property and he punched numbers into a security pad on the door, then tugged Miranda to a dark sedan inside.
“Get in.” His words were gruff, his hand gentle as he pressed it against her shoulder, urging her to do as he’d commanded.
The car door slammed with a finality that stilled the breath in Miranda’s lungs. She shouldn’t be allowing this. Crime prevention experts said it all the time—never get in a car with your attacker. Never let him take you away from the scene.
And here she was, doing exactly that.
But Hawke wasn’t an attacker. He was a man who’d almost been killed. A man she’d saved. Now he claimed to be saving her. She wasn’t sure if she believed him. All she knew was that eventually there’d be a chance to escape. She could only pray that when it came, she’d know for sure whether or not she should take it.
THREE
Hawke’s head throbbed with every movement, every sound reverberating through his brain. He ignored the pain, determined to put as much distance between his new ride and the SUV as possible. It wasn’t just his life on the line this time. He had his passenger to worry about, as well.
Who was she? What had brought her to the funeral home so late at night? Not the hope of scoring drugs. Hawke was almost sure of that, though he’d been sure of things before and been proven wrong.
He risked a quick glance in her direction, gritting his teeth at the renewed throbbing in his head. The woman’s arms were crossed at her waist, her eyes trained straight ahead. She looked scared, not high on drugs. “What’s your name?”
His words must have startled her. She jerked, her arm brushing against his side, her breath leaving on a quick, raspy gasp. “Miranda. Sheldon.”
“Miranda.” The name rolled off his tongue as if he’d said it a thousand times before. “What were you doing at a funeral home so late at night?”
“I was taking a walk.” There was more to it than that. Hawke was sure of it, though he couldn’t blame her for denying him answers.
“And while you were walking you saved my life.”
“Would you rather I had walked away and let you die?”
“Other people would have.”
“I’m not other people. I’m me.”
“And who is that, Miranda Sheldon? Besides a woman caught up in something she didn’t ask for?”
“Just your everyday, average American.” Her words were quiet, barely audible above the rumbling of the car and the slushing agony in his skull, but Hawke heard.
He glanced at Miranda again. The softness he’d noticed when he’d first seen her was only magnified in the close confines of the car. Smooth skin. Shiny hair that fell to her shoulders. Lips and face unadorned. Short unpainted nails. No rings. No jewelry of any kind. Apples. Cinnamon. A sweetness that was obvious even while she was afraid for her life. “There is nothing average or everyday about a woman who’d risk her own life for someone else.”
She didn’t respond and he knew he should be glad. He needed to plan his next move, not carry on a conversation. He rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring the blood that seeped from his head and coated his fingers. To formulate a plan he’d need more information and he knew just where to get it.
He yanked open the glove compartment and pulled out the cell phone he kept there, pushing speed dial to connect with the one number stored on it. The phone rang once before it was picked up.
“Stone, here.” Noah Stone’s voice was tight and gruff, and Hawke knew that the call had been expected. A former DEA agent, Noah was one of the few people who knew Hawke was in the States and what he was doing there. Of those privy to Hawke’s mission, Noah was the only one he trusted.
“It’s Hawke.”
“I thought you might be calling.”
“So you’ve already heard?”
“That you murdered the agent you were working with and stole fifty thousand dollars cash? Who hasn’t?”
“I didn’t steal fifty thousand dollars.”
“That leaves the question of murder open.”
“Smithfield was dead when I got to the rendezvous.” Lying in a pool of his own blood, his head split open.
“Murdered with a machete that had your fingerprints all over it.”
“It should. It’s mine. I left it in Thailand nine months ago.” And yet it was here. He’d seen it with his own eyes—the flat blade and carved-bone handle worn from years of use in the jungles of