“I can feel you thinking, Samira.”
“There has to be a better way.” An easier way. A more passive way. A safer way. The solution was supposed to be so neat and tidy. Online. From a distance.
“Well, you work on that. In the meantime...” He turned, caught her waist and murmured in her ear. “Silence now. I’ll fill you in on the details after we lose these goons.”
She looked behind, her heart jackhammering. “What goons?”
“Up on the path.” He jerked his head as if he expected her to know where it was, took off the backpack and laid it on the ground. “Wait here.”
She clutched his elbow. “What are you going to do? You’re injured. You have no weapons.”
“Ah, but I’ve had very extensive training. And I have the home advantage.” He encircled her waist, yanked her into him and kissed her, hard. She smothered a squeak. “And now I have a wee dram of extra courage. Don’t go anywhere.”
Courage. Like she had any to spare. She sank to the ground, touching her lips, as he pulled something from the backpack and crept noiselessly away. How could he bounce back to flirty and charming so quickly?
Okay, so his betrayal hadn’t chipped at her insane attraction for him. Which was why she was putting her mind back in charge.
He couldn’t be serious about going after Hyland. She’d been surrounded by diplomatic security her whole childhood, cushioned by it, flanked by it, driven around by it, tailed by it during her parents’ more volatile postings, secure in the knowledge that it was always there. And that was the Ethiopian diplomatic service, which wasn’t nearly as comprehensive as its US counterpart. There was never any mistaking when American diplomats were in town.
A rustling, in the trees above. A thud. She scooted behind a large tree trunk. The thud of a body hitting dirt? She sank to the ground, drew her legs up and hugged them, conscious of her rasping breath. Her eyes had adjusted enough to see strands of mist threading around the trees, like cobwebs from a car-sized spider.
In the distance, multiple car engines strained. Why no sirens? A cottage had just exploded.
Voices, close. A man and a woman. Tooth by tooth, she unzipped the backpack, her throat tightening. There had to be something she could use to defend herself, if she needed to. She would no longer leave everything up to Jamie. A few hours ago she’d thought him a god. A god who was hiding something but who’d seemed as infallible as the security guards that’d protected her as a child.
It was childish indeed to think anyone was infallible. But how could he take a sedative at a time like this? Unforgivable. And yet, that skip in her chest when he kissed her just now...
“Samira Desta.” She swiveled, with a gasp. A man stepped out from a stand of trees a few meters away, a handgun pointed at her chest. The blond guy. “It’s been quite a trip,” he said. “Italy, London, here. But to be honest with you, I don’t much like traveling, so if you don’t mind, we’ll call this your final destination.”
She flattened her back against the bag, her arms behind her. “You’re Irish.” She didn’t know what she’d expected—but that wasn’t it.
“I always had you figured for a smart woman. You’ve eluded us awhile—must say I’m impressed. I thought you’d be a far easier target than yer man, Latif. But someone like you can’t run from someone like me forever, just like he couldn’t.” He strolled closer, chatting like they’d known each other for years. “D’you think people will believe it if we put the word about that you were killed in a drone test gone wrong or is that too much of a coincidence? Maybe a gas canister explosion from a barbecue set by squatters. But, hey, these days, the public believe what they want to believe. What their leaders want them to believe. They think they’re so well-informed but really they’re more gullible than ever. No truth or lies anymore, just differing versions of the same story. But then, no one knows for sure where you are, which makes it very easy for you to disappear. Perhaps we don’t need to invent a story at all. Plenty of room in this forest for a double grave. Or that lake looks deep. Two well-weighted bodies could disappear forever.”
An echoing crack rang out above them. A gunshot. Oh God. Jamie’s gun was...back at the cottage.
He tilted his head. “There’s half the problem solved already.”
No.
He pulled a phone from a pocket of his dark coat—a satellite phone, which meant a secure line. “You might have to keep me company a little longer, though. The boss’d like a quick word before you...go. He’s very curious about you.” He pressed a button and held it to his ear. “Oh, and he has a surprise for you.”
Her eyes stung. She blinked away the moisture. Jamie couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t accept that. He was too...alive. That gunshot...there had to be another explanation.
Denial. The first stage of grief.
No.
“I have her,” the guy said, into the phone. He listened a second, then pulled it away from his ear, pretending to be covering the mic. “It’s for you!” he said, in a stage whisper.
He threw it to her feet, keeping the gun aimed. The longer she stayed alive, the better, right? She edged a hand out and picked it up, keeping her movements slow.
“Hello?” she said huskily.
“Ms. Desta, at last.” Hyland. She’d heard that voice a thousand times but never directed at her. “I’m sorry I’m not able to make your acquaintance in person but it’s wonderful to be able to speak on the phone, at last. You’ve proven quite as problematic as your friend Ms. Newell, but I’m glad we could find a solution to our disagreement. I do apologize that it won’t be advantageous to you but I’m sure we could make it work all the same.”
He fell silent.
“Ms. Desta, this is when you speak.” He overenunciated theMs.like it was an insult.
