Him.
Brett.
But, that wasn’t possible, was it? She hadn’t seen him since her world had gone sideways. Since she’d been abducted by the Agency and spirited away. Kept locked up until she’d agreed to work for them. To abandon her life. The man she’d been crazy in love with for two years. Until she’d become a ghost.
Still, the sound of his voice echoed in her head, rousing her, again. She forced her eyelids to stay open, this time. Take in her surroundings as best she could with only the dim glow beneath the adjoining door as a light source. She was in a bedroom, that much was obvious. King-sized bed. Dresser. A few photos on the wall. Too far away to make out, just the shadowed outline of the frames. A couple of chairs were angled toward her. A lone mug sitting on the floor.
It was dark. Not just the room because the lights were out. Outside the large windows off to her right. The skylight on her left. Nothing but inky blackness. No moonlight. No stars. Was it raining? She heard it, now. The steady ping against the glass. It was soothing. Like a lullaby.
She faded for a moment, barely clawing her way back up through the foggy feeling in her head. The crushing pain pulsing with every beat of her heart.
She was alive. It was an odd realization. To be surprised to still be breathing. But there it was, the tingling sensation in her gut that spread across her skin, leaving goosebumps behind. She hadn’t thought she’d wake up, not after losing so much blood?—
Shit.
It came back. Not slowly, like watching a film. Frame by frame gradually filling in the gaps. It hit her hard. All at once. Harsh images that made her gasp—had her reaching for her head before she realizedmovinghurt, too. Just lifting her hands sent throbs coursing through her side. Her chest. Trying to roll over…
She nearly blacked out. Only held on through sheer power of will. The years of training that had her trying to shift the covers—swing her feet to the edge of the bed. Took her several attempts, including the one where she shoved her face in the pillow in the hopes of getting some momentum behind her legs.
That smell. She recognized it. Sandalwood with a hint of pine. The combination had been burned into her psyche. Conjured memories she’d long since buried. Memories of him. Of happiness.
Those were gone. Obliterated. Why her damn brain was choosing to hear his voice, smell his scent—hell, see his face—was uncertain. Brett was history. Nothing but dust in her rearview. A lingering mirage that promised salvation but only brought more despair. And the sooner she accepted that, thequicker she could make peace with how the rest of her life would play out.
Empty. Loveless. Inevitably short.
Assuming she could get out of wherever she was. While she didn’t think she was in danger—no ropes or cuffs binding her hands or feet. No armed men pointing Sigs at her, or stun guns—she couldn’t risk staying anywhere longer than necessary. And since she really couldn’t remember what had happened after the door had swung open, she needed to move. Get to one of her safehouses. Take a day to build up enough strength to muscle through, then go to the bank—access her contingency supplies.
She had three different passports. Eighty grand in a variety of currencies, and two Berettas. Enough to take her anywhere in the world. Or to hole up while she figured out what kind of shit she’d gotten herself into.
But to do that, she needed to get out of the damn bed, which was proving incredibly difficult. Had they drugged her? Put some kind of adhesive on the blankets so she couldn’t lift them off? Because it felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds. Her legs, too. Each one so damn heavy it took another three tries to get them over the edge—place them on the floor.
Her head throbbed at being upright, her rib cage making it impossible to take a deep breath. And as she stumbled to her feet…
Pain. Up through her arches. Across her heels. As if she’d walked across nails or broken glass. She hadn’t, but they hurt.
Embrace the suck.
It wasn’t her motto, but it fit because it was her only option. The only way she’d make it across the room and out the door. Or out a window. Whatever opportunity presented itself.
Ellis took a tentative step, damn near fell, then tripped another foot forward. What she could make out through the windows suggested she was on the second floor. Definitely nother first choice as an exit strategy. She wasn’t in any condition to jump, or climb. Hell, if she didn’t pass out before reaching the door, she’d consider it a freaking miracle. One worthy of some kind of medal. Maybe a trophy, too, because the world was already shifting beneath her. The view getting eaten up by those black dots she remembered from before. When she was outside trying to escape the Suburban.
Had they caught her?
She didn’t think so, but she vaguely remembered gunshots. Bullets ricocheting off the walls. Had they killed the poor guy who’d opened the door—the one she’d imagined had been Brett—then taken her somewhere more remote than the warehouse district? Was she even still in Seattle?
Impossible to know. To source out from a dark room on a rainy night. Even the shirt she’d stolen—commandeered—was gone, replaced by an insanely large tee. Blue, she thought. Or maybe green. Army green?
She groaned. Who cared what color the damn shirt was? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting to a safehouse. Finding a way to disappear for a while until she got a grasp of what she’d stumbled upon. Why her own damn organization wanted her dead.
Because she remembered that part. How the guys who’d grabbed her had been operatives—men she was pretty damn sure she’d seen in secure files at headquarters. The kind she’d unearthed before her entire world had been shattered. Men she could have worked with. And they’d been sent to kill her. Ask her some stupid, unanswerable questions, then blow her brains out. Dump her body someplace it wouldn’t be found until it was nothing more than weathered bones no one would give a damn about.
Not that she had anyone who would give a damn, now.
Get your damn head in the game, girl.
Right. Evade and escape. That was her focus. Which meant she needed a weapon. Anything would do. A shoe. A pen. That belt lying in a misshapen circle on the floor.
Ellis bent over, nearly puked, then managed to grab the long length. She snapped it out, then wrapped the ends around her hands, tugging on it to test its strength. Assuming she didn’t face plant, she could counter anything with that simple stretch of leather but a bullet. But, if they had guns and were willing to use them, it was already over. She’d try to avoid confrontation. Sneak out. But, at least she had something on her side.
