Secret Identity. Пола Грейвс
the Smith & Wesson at the sound. Rick ducked around the front of the car, tumbling forward onto his hands and knees at the sight of the gun. “May I please hide behind your car?” he gritted between his teeth.
She made room for him. “Are you hit?”
“Grazed my arm, I think. Sigurd, I presume?”
“Sigurd’s a warning, not a person.” She risked a quick peek over the hood of her car. She saw a flash of black move between the pines in her front yard. “There’s someone in the front yard. Dressed in black.”
Rick crouched beside her, looking through the car windows. He took a hissing intake of breath as a black-clad figure slipped one tree nearer.
“Is there a way out of here?”
“We can escape into the woods, but I’m guessing whoever’s out there isn’t alone.”
“I’m not so sure.” Rick told her about a stranger he’d spotted at the gas station. “He was definitely alone, and I’m pretty sure the man in black out there is the same guy.”
“How can you tell? He’s wearing a ski mask.”
“Same body build, same clothes. If you spot a Toyota Land Cruiser nearby—”
Amanda peered over the hood of the car. The man in black was on the move again, slipping out into open. For the hell of it, Amanda fired off a couple of quick shots in his general direction, the gunfire echoing in the surrounding woods.
“Don’t waste the ammo,” Rick warned. “We’ll need it.”
“What we really need is a vehicle. We can’t hike out of these woods.” She looked at Rick, her heart giving a small leap as she realized his face was only inches away.
For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, and she was back in Tablis, her body tangled with his, hot and straining for more—more pleasure, more closeness, more communion. But the crackle of footsteps on the dry leaves in her yard dragged her back to the present, a sobering reminder that there were damned good reasons not to let herself get wrapped up in anyone again.
“Let me lead him away,” Rick suggested. “You can take the car and get out of here.”
“And leave you to die?” She shook her head. “No way in hell. I don’t leave a man behind.”
He gave her a quizzical look, and she dropped her gaze, hiding the chaos of emotion churning in her chest. He probably had no idea what had happened to her the day after they ended their affair. The CIA never publicized its casualties.
“We can’t wait here for him to reach us.”
“In my kitchen is a duffel bag. I packed it to run. I’m going around the back and out into the woods. I’ll lure him away from here. Where’s your car?”
“Parked down the road.”
“He may have seen it—and if he disabled it—”
“I hid it off the road. Didn’t want it stolen.”
“Take the duffel. Go to your car and drive a mile east. I’ll meet you if I make it.”
There was a pained look in his eyes as his gaze met hers. “No ifs,” he said fiercely. “You make it or else.”
She fought against a sudden flood of weakness. Where had he been when she was rotting in a Kaziri rebel prison, wondering if anyone remembered her at all?
You’re the one who started pushing him away.
But he was the one who’d spoken the final words.
“Wait for me to draw his fire away from here, then go inside. There’s a first-aid kit in the duffel, but I don’t think you’ll have time to waste.”
He moved suddenly, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her to him. “If you can kill him, do.” He kissed her forehead.
Swallowing hard, she scooted backward, losing cover for just a moment. No gunfire came her way, to her relief. She must have caught the attacker changing positions.
She edged her way around the side of the house, straining for any sound ahead. Her house butted up to a bluff, offering little room to maneuver. But if she could get around to the other side of the house, the woods spread for almost three miles to the east. She knew Bridal Veil Woods like the back of her hand. If she could get a head start into the cover of the trees, she could outmaneuver the gunman and get away.
Or get the drop on him.
RICK’S ARM WAS HURTING like a son of a bitch, but the wound was superficial, a bloody graze on his upper left arm that would require some first aid once he had a chance to breathe again but wasn’t likely to cause him any real problems. He found the duffel bag in the kitchen, lying on the floor where she’d left it, probably when he knocked on her door unexpectedly.
He wasn’t sure why Tara—Amanda—was hiding out in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, but something had gone terribly wrong since the last time he’d seen her. He’d seen it in her haunted blue eyes.
What had the CIA done to her?
He hauled the duffel bag over one shoulder and headed to the back door, waiting for the bark of her Smith & Wesson to the east, his signal to make a run for it.
When the gunfire came, it was a pair of shots. One impossibly close, the other from the woods to the right of the house.
Then silence.
Rick froze in place, not sure what to do next. After a beat, he heard footfalls on the front porch, slow but steady.
He leveled his Walther at the door, his heart pounding a familiar, rapid-fire cadence. He’d been away from war zones a year now, but some things a man never forgot.
“Rick, it’s me.” Amanda’s voice came through the thin wooden door. “I’m unlocking the door and coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”
He kept the Walther steady, aware she could be speaking at the point of a gun.
There was a rattle of the doorknob, the slide of a key into the lock and the scrape of the dead bolt disengaging. The door swung open and Amanda entered alone, looking pale and jittery. “I shot him. He’s dead,” she said. “I need you to see if he’s the man you remember from the gas station.”
He laid a comforting hand on her arm when he reached her side. Her muscles twitched at his touch, as if she was ready to bolt at any second. Probably was—it was hard to control the physiological instinct for fight or flight, even if you were a highly trained intelligence officer.
The body of the shooter lay on the grass in front of her yard, blood still oozing from a chest shot. “Good aim,” he murmured, circling the body to get a look at the man’s face.
What he saw there came as a complete surprise.
“It’s not the guy from the Land Cruiser,” he said aloud, his voice tight and strained.
“But you recognize him?” she asked.
He nodded. “His name is Delman Riggs.” He looked up at her, his heart in his throat. “He used to work for MacLear.”
Chapter Three
“We have to move his body.” Amanda kept her voice low and calm, even though an endless shriek of terror played in a constant loop in her mind, echoing the memories that would never leave her as long as she lived.
But she had to focus on what needed to be done now. She could fall apart later, when she was finally alone again.
Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Move his body where?”
“I don’t care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. We have about five minutes before the police get here. My neighbors will call in the gunfire.