Her operation was a bust, her partner was dead—Jesus! Poor Stewart!—a Russian assassin, not to mention her very own agency, was after her. And she had no idea where to begin to sort out any of it.
To make matters worse, she had to pee.
Her desperation to get far away from Koontz Lake, Indiana, was the only thing that kept her from poking Hunter on the shoulder and gesturing for him to pull over. Well, that and the last thing she wanted was for him to watch her run into the bushes and drop trou five minutes after racing to her rescue.
She needed to take her mind off her discomfort.
Fortunately, she was snuggled up behind the ultimate distraction.
Closing her eyes, she dragged the smell of Hunter into her lungs. A smell that was mixed with the aroma of the open road and the sweetness of the summer night.
For three years she’d dreamed of the complementary scents of spicy aftershave and leather oil. And she’d assumed that second note had to do with the antique watch he wore around his thick wrist. The one with the leather band. The one she’d noticed he wound when he was deep in thought.
Now, however, she realized he might smell of leather oil because heworeleather. Because he was some sort of spy/soldier/biker?
Didn’t have quite the same ring asTinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spybut it was close.
Who are you, Hunter Jackson?
The thought leaked out of her head when his gloved hand closed over the fingers she’d laced together at his waist. He gave her a pat before returning his grip to the handlebar.
It was a gesture of reassurance. Of comfort. And that small act ofnoblesse obligehad sudden tears burning the back of her throat.
Hunter was basically a stranger. One she hadn’t seen or heard from in years. And yet, when she’d needed him, he’d come.
Without question.
Without hesitation.
She might not know who he worked for or who he really was. But one thing she knew for sure.
Tonight, he’s my savior.
4
“She got away.”
“What do you mean she got away?” The voice on the other end of the call sounded exasperated. Then again, to Pavel Siderov’s ears, the American known as Bishopalwayssounded exasperated. It was his harried tone. His clipped words that even the voice changer could not disguise. “Did the FBI find her before you did?”
“Nyet.” Pavel shook his head and took another drag on his cigarette. “Two men on motorcycles took her just as I was closing in.”
There was a brief pause. “Motorcycles? Did you catch the plates?”
“Illinois plates.” Pavel was quick to scurry down the embankment when he heard a car approaching.
He took the car’s measure as it sped by. SUV. Dark color. Factory-standard rims.
FBI, no doubt. Hunting for Agent Beacham.
Like always, they were one step behind.
His strategy to take out the male agent and frame the female agent for the murder had gone exactly to plan. Having studied human anatomy, he’d known just where to place the small blade so that death was inevitable. But the one thing he hadnotcounted on? For Agent Beacham to run.
Why?he wondered.
In his experience, innocent people didn’t run. They naively assumed the truth would set them free.
But the buxom blond agent had ducked out so fast no one had seen her leave. No one save for Pavel himself. And after spending a good thirty seconds blinking in surprise at her quickly retreating form, he’d given chase.
