admitting to.” His lips tipped up in a faint, sad smile, there and gone so quickly she might’ve thought she’d imagined it if she hadn’t seen the unexpected hint of a dimple on one cheek. It didn’t exactly make him look boyish and approachable—she had a strong feeling he didn’t do boyish or approachable very well—but it definitely stirred her juices, bringing a flare of warmth where such a thing should never have existed.
At best, he was an undercover fed with so few outside ties that he’d willingly gone to jail for an op. At worst, he was lying through his teeth, and really was a murderer, and an escapee.
She knew she should run far and fast. Somehow, though, she couldn’t. Instead, she stood and crossed to him, stopping just short of where he stood in the shadows cast by the single lamp that lit the living room. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”
He glanced at her TV, where the digital display on the cable box showed that it was nearly 7:00 p.m. He muttered a curse. “I don’t have time tonight. I’ve stretched the supply run as long as I can. They’ll be expecting me back soon.”
At the mention of the others, she looked around in sudden panic, locking on the woods beyond her yard. “Where are they?” Images of al-Jihad and the others crowded her brain. “Are they out there?”
“No.” But he didn’t elaborate. “Will you help me?”
“Why are you protecting them? Why not tell the cops where they are?”
“Because I’m the one who helped them escape, remember? Why else do you think I had the knockout drops?”
“You—” She broke off as a sinking sensation warned her that she was way out of her depth. Making a sudden decision, she said, “I can’t deal with this.” She turned for the door. “You have until the count of ten to get the hell out of here. When I hit ten, I’m opening the front door and screaming bloody murder.”
This time he didn’t try to stop her physically. Instead, he said, “Didn’t you wonder why you recovered from the drug so fast and why the doctors couldn’t find any trace of it in your blood? Didn’t you wonder who called in the nine-one-one and gave the cops your location?”
She stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I suppose you can explain that?” She cursed herself for giving him the opening, but he’d nailed the questions she’d been asking herself all day.
“Look at me.”
Still cursing herself for a fool, she did exactly that, only to find that he’d moved, so silently she hadn’t known he was coming until he was inside her space the way she’d been inside his only moments earlier.
She wanted to back away, but something told her now was not the time to let him know exactly how much his physical presence—and the feelings he kindled inside her—intimidated her. So instead of retreating, she stood her ground and lifted her chin. “Well?”
He leaned in, until their faces were too close together and his breath feathered across her skin. “I planted a homing device on you, along with a data pellet. Jane—or more likely, one of her people—retrieved the information and the bug, gave you the antidote to the injection, and rearranged the scene a little before calling it in.”
Her mouth had gone dry during his recitation, which was too far-out to be true, too consistent with the evidence to be a lie. Heart drumming against her ribs, she said, “If you’ve got other people on your team, why do you need me?”
His voice was flat when he said, “I only know how to contact Jane. It’s safer that way.”
Until she gets knocked out of the picture, at which point you’re on your own, Chelsea thought, but didn’t say. It seemed like a very lonely way to live, and was the sort of detail the movies skimmed over in order to hit the action and danger.
“You’ve got to have some sort of backup plan, right?”
“Wrong.”
Chelsea exhaled a frustrated breath. “There’s nobody who can confirm your story?”
“Nobody
At best, he was an undercover fed with so few outside ties that he’d willingly gone to jail for an op. At worst, he was lying through his teeth, and really was a murderer, and an escapee.
She knew she should run far and fast. Somehow, though, she couldn’t. Instead, she stood and crossed to him, stopping just short of where he stood in the shadows cast by the single lamp that lit the living room. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”
He glanced at her TV, where the digital display on the cable box showed that it was nearly 7:00 p.m. He muttered a curse. “I don’t have time tonight. I’ve stretched the supply run as long as I can. They’ll be expecting me back soon.”
At the mention of the others, she looked around in sudden panic, locking on the woods beyond her yard. “Where are they?” Images of al-Jihad and the others crowded her brain. “Are they out there?”
“No.” But he didn’t elaborate. “Will you help me?”
“Why are you protecting them? Why not tell the cops where they are?”
“Because I’m the one who helped them escape, remember? Why else do you think I had the knockout drops?”
“You—” She broke off as a sinking sensation warned her that she was way out of her depth. Making a sudden decision, she said, “I can’t deal with this.” She turned for the door. “You have until the count of ten to get the hell out of here. When I hit ten, I’m opening the front door and screaming bloody murder.”
This time he didn’t try to stop her physically. Instead, he said, “Didn’t you wonder why you recovered from the drug so fast and why the doctors couldn’t find any trace of it in your blood? Didn’t you wonder who called in the nine-one-one and gave the cops your location?”
She stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I suppose you can explain that?” She cursed herself for giving him the opening, but he’d nailed the questions she’d been asking herself all day.
“Look at me.”
Still cursing herself for a fool, she did exactly that, only to find that he’d moved, so silently she hadn’t known he was coming until he was inside her space the way she’d been inside his only moments earlier.
She wanted to back away, but something told her now was not the time to let him know exactly how much his physical presence—and the feelings he kindled inside her—intimidated her. So instead of retreating, she stood her ground and lifted her chin. “Well?”
He leaned in, until their faces were too close together and his breath feathered across her skin. “I planted a homing device on you, along with a data pellet. Jane—or more likely, one of her people—retrieved the information and the bug, gave you the antidote to the injection, and rearranged the scene a little before calling it in.”
Her mouth had gone dry during his recitation, which was too far-out to be true, too consistent with the evidence to be a lie. Heart drumming against her ribs, she said, “If you’ve got other people on your team, why do you need me?”
His voice was flat when he said, “I only know how to contact Jane. It’s safer that way.”
Until she gets knocked out of the picture, at which point you’re on your own, Chelsea thought, but didn’t say. It seemed like a very lonely way to live, and was the sort of detail the movies skimmed over in order to hit the action and danger.
“You’ve got to have some sort of backup plan, right?”
“Wrong.”
Chelsea exhaled a frustrated breath. “There’s nobody who can confirm your story?”
“Nobody
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