CHAPTER 1
Carla
Black Dodge Ram, tinted windows, backed in tactical.I've circled the Walmart lot twice and it hasn't moved.I park three rows away and sit with the engine running, watching.
Maybe it's nothing.Maybe I'm paranoid.
But paranoia kept me alive in Helmand Province, and it's kept me hidden for eight months I’ve been on the run.
I kill the engine and grab my purse, checking that my knife is accessible in the side pocket.Old habits.The Glock 19 is locked in my apartment because concealed carry permits require paperwork, and paperwork creates a trail.The knife will have to be enough.
The October air bites as I cross the lot.I keep the Ram in my peripheral vision.No movement.No one gets out.The wind carries the smell of exhaust and old cigarette smoke from the shopping cart corral.A few dried leaves skitter across the asphalt, scraping and tumbling toward the far edge of the lot.
Still, my heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
Inside, I grab a cart—one of the wheels wobbles—and head for the produce section.The store is half-empty on a Tuesday afternoon, just a handful of shoppers moving through the aisles.An old Johnny Cash song plays over the speakers, something about walking the line.
I'm not seeing apples or lettuce.I'm running scenarios.If Randall tracked me here to this nothing town in western Virginia, I need a plan.The apartment has a fire escape.I keep a go-bag under the bed.I can be gone in ten minutes.
But I'm so damn tired of running.
I think about the knife in my purse. I might have a chance if I got the drop on him.Or I might just make him angry.
Angrier.
My hands ache where I'm gripping the cart handle.I force myself to release it, flex my fingers.Breathe.In through the nose, out through the mouth.The way the therapist at the VA taught me before I stopped going because talking about it only made the nightmares worse.
"Excuse me."
I jerk sideways.My other hand goes to my purse, fingers brushing the knife handle.
A woman—sixty-something, gray hair, kind eyes—holds up apologetic hands.She's wearing a quilted jacket with cats embroidered on the pockets."Sorry, honey.I didn’t mean to startle you."
"No, it’s okay."I force my shoulders down, unclench my jaw."My fault.I was distracted."
She smiles and reaches past me for the Roma tomatoes.I move away, pushing my cart toward the back of the store where I can see both exits.The wheels squeak with every rotation.Someone dropped a jar of pickles in aisle three.The sharp smell of vinegar and brine fills the air while a teenager in a red vest mops up the mess.
I need milk, bread, eggs, and coffee.Basic supplies.In and out.
I'm in the coffee aisle, comparing prices and trying to remember if I prefer the medium roast or the dark, when I feel a crawling sensation between my shoulder blades.The one that used to mean a sniper had you in his sights.The one that means someone is watching.
I turn slowly, scanning the aisle.
A man stands near the end cap, studying a display of protein bars with more attention than the labels deserve.Tall—six-two, maybe six-three.Broad shoulders that strain the seams of his gray Henley.Dark hair cut military-short, the kind of haircut that says active duty or recently separated.Strong jaw.Tanned skin that suggests he spends time outdoors.He wears jeans that fit well and boots that have seen some miles.
I relax a little as I recognize him.It’s my neighbor.He moved into the empty apartment next to mine from two weeks ago.
I've seen him exactly four times since then.Once in the parking lot unloading boxes from a truck with Colorado plates.Twice in the hallway where we exchanged awkward nods and I walked faster to avoid conversation.Once at the mailboxes where he held the door for me and I mumbled thanks without making eye contact because the last thing I need is to know my neighbors or have them know me.
He looks up, and his gaze locks onto mine.
I should look away, but I don’t.He’s sexy as hell.And for a moment I think he’s checking me out too.
His eyes are hazel, more green than brown in the store's harsh lighting.There is something in them that makes me want to step back and step forward at the same time.
He nods once, a small acknowledgment that somehow feels loaded with meaning, then goes back to the protein bars.
I turn away and grab the first coffee I see, tossing it in my cart without checking the price.The can rattles against the metal cart.And because my mind always has to go there, I wonder if Randall sent him.
