Mark Del Franco - Skin Deep

He darted back in to check his dialogue, then out again. “No, I believe you. I just don’t get it. Why the hell would he try to kill you?”

She followed him out of the field. “… worse. Sanchez said something to me. I think I should go to the FBI or InterSec.”

They returned to the dining room, close enough for the kitchen ward to pick them up. “What did he say?” Sinclair asked.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” Laura said.

Sinclair picked up the page of dialogue they were on. “What the hell, Crawford? You just told me Gianni shot you. What the hell did Sanchez say that can be worse than that?”

“I’m afraid, Jono. Someone’s tried to kill me three times since the warehouse,” she said.

Sinclair lifted the script, his brow furrowing as he read. “Wait a minute… three? You told me about the bridge and last night. What else happened?”

She paused in surprise. She hadn’t told him about what happened at the FBI building-which had happened to Mariel, not Janice. She improvised, not wanting to dwell on the slip-up. “Someone tried to run me off the road, just like what happened to you. I thought it was a drunk driver until now.”

Get back to the script, Jono! she sent.

His eyes searched her face. “Why do you play things so dangerously?”

She waved the script in front of him. “I didn’t ask for this, Jono. That’s why I’m afraid. If I tell you everything, you’ll be in danger, too.”

He held her arms. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.”

Jono, please! We can’t mess this up. They’re listening, she sent.

“So you think I should keep quiet?” she asked.

He ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “I think I want you to be safe. Let’s just go away, get away from all this.”

Angry, she grabbed his hand. “Jono…”

He tilted her chin up, leaned down, and kissed her. She closed her eyes and found herself surrendering to the moment, the warm and full pressure of his lips against hers. It had been so long since she had let a man touch her. So long since she had even wanted to be touched. She didn’t move. Sinclair broke the kiss. She savored the moment, knowing that when she opened her eyes, it would end. But it had to end. She didn’t want to risk allowing something to happen between them that would only end badly.

She looked up at him, not angry or annoyed, but regretful. “I can’t do this.”

“Neither can I. Not if it means losing you before things have even started,” he said. He twined his fingers into hers and led her into the bedroom. She let him lead her, let him hold her hand like that, and told herself it was part of the plan to continue the fake dialogue in the bedroom.

Sinclair sat on the side of the bed, and the listening ward faded as his medallion interacted with it. Laura tugged her hands away and placed them on his shoulders. He held her hips and pulled her closer.

She shook her head. “This isn’t going to happen, Jono.”

He slid his hands higher and drew her down with him as he fell back on the bed. She lay on top of him, refusing to straddle him. With his fingers in the belt loops of her jeans, he wiggled her back and forth. “We could always drink more beer so you can tell me how drunk you were and how you don’t remember a thing.”

She rolled off him. “Stop. We can’t. I told you I don’t date colleagues.”

He stretched on his side. “Oh, but you can kiss them, huh? Besides, we’re not technically colleagues until Terryn decides I’m good enough.”

She snorted. “Oh, you’re good all right. Just not the kind of good I think Terryn had in mind.”

With light touches, he walked his fingers up her arm. “Someone’s making excuses,” he sang softly.

Laura grabbed his hand when it reached her shoulder. “Jono, we don’t have time for this.” He relaxed his hand to lie flat on her shoulder. She slipped off the bed. “We have to get out of here.”

Sinclair leaned his elbows on his knees, thinking through what she said. “Where do we go?”

“Stick to the plan. The Guildhouse, then the safe house. When the listening ward reactivates, we get back to the script and talk about going out for more beer. Got it?” she said.

“Got it,” he said. The listening ward reactivated as he rolled off the bed and pulled a pair of shoes from the closet.

“Now? You want to go for more beer now?” Laura said, putting a note of surprise in her voice.

Sinclair slipped on his running shoes. “Sure, we’ve got the whole night, babe, and, trust me, you’re going to get thirsty.”

She walked out to the dining room. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

Sinclair appeared in the doorway as she gathered up the dialogue sheets from the table. He retrieved the script from the counter while she gathered the rest from the coffee table. Turning, Sinclair was behind her. He handed her the rest of the pages. “All set?” she asked.

She shoved the papers in her duffel bag and tossed it to Sinclair. He looked down at it, then retreated to the bedroom. “Wait a sec, I need some cash.”

“I’ve got cash,” she said pointedly.

Sinclair reappeared waving a leather shaving kit at her, and Laura rolled her eyes. “I’m ready,” he said.

They hit the sidewalk. “You went back for deodorant and shaving cream?” Laura said in disbelief.

“And a toothbrush,” Sinclair said in mock self-defense. “I believe in good oral hygiene even when I’m on the run from shadowy assassins.”

They reached her SUV and separated to the opposite sides. “There’s a tooth-fairy joke in there somewhere,” she said.

She called Terryn as she pulled in to traffic. “We’re on our way. We should be in the safe zone in about three blocks.”

“Agents are in place. Drive safely,” Terryn said.

She made a mental map of their planned route from Sinclair’s apartment to the Guildhouse. If Alfrey or Gianni had planted listening wards, they sure as hell had people watching the apartment. To keep suspicion down, Terry would hold off backup for the first few blocks. After that, they would drive a protective gauntlet, watched by Guildhouse agents.

When she reached the corner, a black car blocked the street. Laura skipped the intended turn. “Do you think that’s them already?”

Sinclair adjusted his line of sight in the visor mirror. “Definitely. That was the wrong way on a one-way street.

Turn two blocks up, and we should be fine.”

Laura goosed the accelerator. Behind them, four black cars appeared in formation in pairs. Perfectly normal black-car behavior in D.C., except for the fact that they weren’t escorting anyone and were speeding up.

Laura checked her mirrors. “They took the bait.”

Sinclair twisted in his seat to look out the rear window. The cars had no insignia, and the license plates displayed consecutive numbers. Not a good sign. Laura gunned the SUV through a yellow light. All four cars ran the red. Definitely not a good sign. The cars moved to pass on either side. When the lead cars reached the SUV, they paced it.

“Hang on,” Laura said. She slammed on the brakes. All four cars shot past the SUV. As they braked, Laura gunned the engine and spun the steering wheel. The SUV rocked savagely side to side in a tight turn. Laura slapped the police light onto the roof and hit the gas pedal. Oncoming traffic careened to either side as she tore up the one-way street.

“We’re cops now?” Sinclair said.

“Whatever it takes, Jono. If we can’t get to our backup, maybe we can draw them to us,” she said.

Two black cars followed. Laura skidded the turn at the next corner. Cars pulled over as her police light warned them off. The SUV flew through an intersection as Laura hit the dashboard phone. Static crackled over her speakers. She fumbled in her pocket for her cell and flipped it open. More static. “They’re jamming the phones,” she said.