She pressed her hand to the cross around her neck.
Wherever her Savior led, she’d follow.
13
The black SUVGriff found in the bunker's underground garage handled like a Humvee. Exactly what he needed. Bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, and enough horsepower to outrun trouble if necessary. What he hadn't counted on was his passenger's complete inability to sit still.
Sarah had rearranged her laptop setup three times in the first hour, power cords snaking everywhere, turning the passenger side into some kind of mobile command center. Every few minutes she'd check the side mirror, scan the road behind them, then force herself back to the screen. Her leg bounced constantly, a nervous energy she couldn't quite contain.
She'd discovered the SUV's sound system and was now subjecting him to what she called "road trip music"—a sugary pop playlist turned up loud enough to drown out her thoughts.
He glanced over at her for the fifth time in twenty minutes. A shower had done her wonders. That beautiful hair gleamed in the glow from the dash, but she was still wearing the same outfit from yesterday—designer jeans tornat the knee from their escape through the mine, silk blouse stained with dirt, and those ridiculous boots held together with duct tape. She looked like exactly what she was, someone who'd been running for her life.
Too memorable. Too identifiable. And judging by the way she kept pulling at her clothes, too much of a reminder of what had happened.
He rubbed his temple and blinking hard, the chemical sting still ghosting his vision."We need to stop."
Sarah's head snapped up from her laptop, immediately scanning the road. "Why? What's wrong? Did you see something?"
"You need clothes."
She looked down at herself, then back at him, some of the tension easing. "I'm fine."
"You look like an extra in a disaster movie."
"Thanks. Really boosting my confidence here." But her voice was too bright, forced cheerful.
"Sorry. I’m trying to say, you look memorable. We need to fix that." He took another curve, watching her grip the door handle. "Remember our deal? This falls into the category of mission safety."
She was quiet for a moment, fingers drumming against her laptop. "Fine. Normal clothes. Blend in. I can do that."
"There's a truck stop about twenty miles ahead. They'll have the basics."
"Truck stop fashion." She attempted a laugh. "My mother would be so proud."
"You want designer, or you want to stay alive?"
The false cheer dropped. "At this point, I’ll take clean. These clothes smell like fear."
Half an hour later, Griff pulled into the Flying J truck stop, parking at the edge of the lot with clear sightlines to all entrances. In the hours between lunch and dinner, the placewas busy enough to provide cover—truckers grabbing coffee, families on road trips, the usual interstate crowd even though they were on secondary roads. There’d be at least a handful of active security cams, but by the time the people chasing them got the footage, they’d be long gone.
Sarah hadn't moved to get out, her hand frozen on the door handle.
"Hey," he said quietly. "We're okay here. In and out, fifteen minutes max."
"Right. Shopping. Normal activity." She took a breath, squared her shoulders. "Stay close?"
"I'm not letting you out of my sight."
That seemed to help. She climbed out, but he noticed how she positioned herself—back to the SUV, constantly scanning the parking lot. Even her minimal FBI training showing through the fear.
The truck stop's general store was exactly what he'd expected—fluorescent lights, the smell of coffee and diesel, and racks of clothing that prioritized function over form. Sarah stood frozen at the entrance to the clothing section, her hand unconsciously moving to where her concealed carry would be—if she had one.
A truck driver brushed past her. She flinched, hand coming up defensively before she caught herself.
"I don't even know where to start," she muttered, her voice pitched higher than normal.
Griff noticed her cataloging exits, counting customers. "Breathe. We're secure here."
