Now, he opened the back door on the driver’s side and studied her as she awoke, gaunt and extra pale, her lips dry.She bore an ugly bruise on the right side of her chest where the bullet had somehow missed anything vital as it tore through flesh and muscle.She was damned lucky she hadn’t lost too much blood before the paramedics arrived.
His gut hardened just thinking about it.Her surgery had gone well, but a complete recovery was weeks—maybe months—away.She was going to need acute care and monitoring for the next few days, and eventually probably physical therapy to regain full use of her right arm and shoulder.
“Do you need a bathroom break?”
After a quick glance around, she nodded and unlatched her seat belt.
He gently positioned the black shawl over her shoulders to hide her bandages, and helped her exit the car.Ten minutes later, they were back at the Peugeot with crappy snacks, water, a flip-top lip balm that she could apply one-handed, and a large coffee for him.
He helped her into the seat behind his and got her buckled in.“So, have you made a decision?”
Her gaze searched his face, but she didn’t answer right away.
Finally, she sighed.“I’ll go with you.”
Ford tried not to let his relief show, but he could feel some of the tension in his shoulders and jaw release.“Okay, good.”He closed her door and slid behind the wheel.In the mirror, he found her looking uncharacteristically anxious, her lower lip between her teeth, brow furrowed.She’d always projected strength and confidence.Seeing her like this triggered a renewed surge of protectiveness.“I know it sucks, but I think this is the right choice for now.Hopefully, it’ll just be for a few days.”During which he’d be doing everything in his power to find the fuckers who wanted her dead.
“If anyone can stop Renfro, it’s Emma.I just wish I could help somehow.”
“You staying safe and hiddenishelping.”
“Maybe.”She set her jaw and returned to staring out the window.
Eventually, she fell asleep again, and he maneuvered the car in silence down the A7 toward Marseille, paralleling the Rhône through the valley at the base of the Alps.The sky was clear and blue over l’autoroute du Soleil, the Motorway of the Sun, as the road’s namesake bore down on them.
Summer traffic was predictably thick, winding past low hills and farmland, plots divided by tall trees and dotted with pale cows.If she didn’t need sleep so badly, he’d wake her to point out the view.
They made another quick pit stop at a gas station outside of Montélimar and began the final hours of the drive.His anxiety bloomed as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon, gilding the heat-parched landscape.While Natalie dozed again, he took extra time to ensure no one had picked up their scent, exiting and entering the highway and occasionally going in circles, before heading to the farmhouse where he’d stashed Henri just weeks earlier.
To alert the man of his visit, he’d sent flowers to a woman in Marseille who would then use a burner phone to leave a voicemail on a line that Henri was supposed to check every night.The type of flowers determined whether she’d tell him her aunt was visiting—expect a visit—or that she had a book recommendation for him—get out of the house and go to the agreed-upon backup location.
Henri left a voicemail on the same line to check in.If he missed a night, the woman would send lilies to Ford’s office, alerting him to a problem.
Of course, even if the older man got Ford’s message now, he wouldn’t be expecting him to arrive with a companion.Especially not a patient recovering from a gunshot wound.Ford wasn’t eagerly awaiting that conversation, but he had few viable options at this point.It was precisely because of Henri that Ford had been under constant surveillance for nearly a month.Whether from the police, or the criminal enterprise that wanted Henri dead, or both, remained unclear.
Either way, he had risked all their lives to bring Natalie here, but it was the only way he could think of to keep her safe.The gruff old doctor would not be happy to see them, but Henri owed him, and tonight Ford intended to collect.
Natalie woke the next morning to the rumble of a car engine and the crunch of tires on gravel.Her mouth tasted like death and her eyelids were made of concrete, shut tightly against a bright light.She tried to lift a hand to rub her face and gasped as pain dug its talons into her upper chest and shoulder.
Her eyes popped open as she released a slow, shuddering breath.Someone had propped her in a semi-upright position in a plush double bed, her right arm in a sling, fixed to her torso with Velcro straps.She wasn’t tied up in any way, but even as her mind grew more alert and the ache in her shoulder intensified, fatigue lashed her body to the mattress.
Overhead, dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling of a spacious room painted soft white, with matching floor tiles, and a pale stone fireplace.To her left, sunlight poured in through ivory sheers.Clearly not a hospital, though someone had a hard-on for white.
The doctor’s farmhouse.
It all came back to her then.With her good hand, she lifted the covers and confirmed that beneath the snowy comforter and faintly striped sheets, she still wore a green sleeveless dress that revealed a bandage over her right collarbone.So, getting shot hadn’t been a bad dream.Nor the long, sleepy ride in the back seat of Ford’s car.
A closed wooden door stood at one end of the room and curtain-flanked windows at the other.Was Ford on the other side of that door?A vague memory flickered in her mind of him carrying her through the dark, gravel crunching under his feet, and then deep voices in a foreign language as she tried and failed to escape the realm of sleep.
Nerves dancing, she called out, “Hello?”The word came out like sandpaper on wood.She cleared her throat and took a deep breath.“Hello?”
A clink of metal on china and the scrape of a chair came from somewhere in the house, followed by heavy footsteps.The door opened with a low creak.A tall white man with graying hair combed back from his broad forehead clomped in.He wore a short-sleeved button-down and jeans that were far too crisp to pass for casual.
She used her free hand to tug the covers up to her neck.“Who areyou?”
He scowled down at her, his blue eyes wary.“Henri,” he replied, pronouncing it something like “on-ree,” then proceeded to rattle off a bunch of words in another language—French, probably—that went right over her head.
“I’m sorry.I don’t understand.”Anxiety coiled around her spine.“Where’s Ford?”
