Paula Graves - Secret Identity

She grabbed her Smith & Wesson from the nightstand. The heft of it in her hand gave her a renewed sense of control, easing the rapid-fire cadence of her pulse. She crept down the hall to the front of the house and moved to one of the windows looking out on the shaded front yard. Sliding the curtain aside an inch, she peered out at her driveway but saw nothing.

Still, something had tripped the perimeter. Might have been an animal.

Might not.

She took a couple of deep breaths to brace herself and scooted through the doorway into the kitchen to check out the side window. But when she peeked through a space in the curtains, all she saw was movement to her right, a flash of charcoal disappearing around the side of her house, heading toward the front.

She started toward the front door, then froze when three loud raps rang through the silent house.

An assassin who knocked first?

She moved away from the door, her footfalls whisper-soft against the hardwood floor. It might be a ruse to bring her to the doorway. Even peering through the fish-eye security lens was too dangerous; any large-caliber ammunition would penetrate the wood door. Should’ve replaced it with a steel-reinforced one, she thought.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. Too late now.

Knocks sounded on the door again, louder this time. She backpedaled, old instincts kicking in. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a box of ammunition for the Smith & Wesson. Tucking the box in her waistband, she headed out the back door, hoping her visitor would keep knocking long enough for her to reach the woods behind her house. She could set up a defensive position there, her familiarity with the terrain an advantage.

She had barely reached the carport, however, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the flagstone walk toward the corner of the house. She raced around the back of her car and crouched behind the front fender.

The footsteps continued a moment, then fell silent. Amanda’s pulse thundered in her ears. She tightened her grip on the 9 mm and held her breath, waiting for his next move.

“Tara?”

The voice, deep and familiar, sent a shiver down her spine.

“Sorry, it’s Amanda now, isn’t it?” Rick Cooper asked.

She remained silent.

“I know you’re out here. I can feel you.”

Her stomach knotted, inconvenient tears stinging her eyes.

His footsteps made a scraping sound on the concrete as he walked slowly toward her car. “I saw Alexander Quinn not two hours ago. Have you spoken with him?”

“Stop there,” she commanded, pleased at the steadiness of her voice, considering how hard her heart was pounding.

He stopped.

She dared a quick peek over the hood of her car. Rick stood about ten feet away. His coffee-brown eyes met hers, his lips parting.

“You called me earlier,” she said.

His mouth quirked. “Technically, you called first.”

“Did Quinn tell you what to say?”

“Not exactly. You know how damned inscrutable he is.”

“But he did tell you to say ‘Sigurd’?”

“He told me to remember the word. I chose to say it.”

As Quinn had known he would. Manipulative bastard. “What have you been doing since MacLear went down?”

“Working.”

She sat back on her heels. “Doing what?”

“Security-threat analysis. My brother has an agency.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I have two of them. And three sisters. I didn’t just hatch out of a rock somewhere, you know.” Rick’s gaze focused on the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. “I really don’t like having a weapon pointed at me.”

“Too bad.”

He pressed his lips in a tight line. “Very well. What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?”

“Nothing.” She motioned with the gun. “I need to leave. You’re standing in front of my car.”

“What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?” he repeated.

Before she could answer, something hit her windshield with a loud crack, spider-webbing the glass.

“Get down!” she shouted to Rick.

She heard a soft thud and a low groan.

“Rick?”

Scrabbling sounds came from the other side of the car, moving toward her. She wheeled and aimed the Smith & Wesson at the sound. Rick ducked around the front of the car, tumbling forward onto his hands and knees at the sight of the gun. “May I please hide behind your car?” he gritted between his teeth.

She made room for him. “Are you hit?”

“Grazed my arm, I think. Sigurd, I presume?”

“Sigurd’s a warning, not a person.” She risked a quick peek over the hood of her car. She saw a flash of black move between the pines in her front yard. “There’s someone in the front yard. Dressed in black.”

Rick crouched beside her, looking through the car windows. He took a hissing intake of breath as a black-clad figure slipped one tree nearer.

“Is there a way out of here?”

“We can escape into the woods, but I’m guessing whoever’s out there isn’t alone.”

“I’m not so sure.” Rick told her about a stranger he’d spotted at the gas station. “He was definitely alone, and I’m pretty sure the man in black out there is the same guy.”

“How can you tell? He’s wearing a ski mask.”

“Same body build, same clothes. If you spot a Toyota Land Cruiser nearby—”

Amanda peered over the hood of the car. The man in black was on the move again, slipping out into open. For the hell of it, Amanda fired off a couple of quick shots in his general direction, the gunfire echoing in the surrounding woods.

“Don’t waste the ammo,” Rick warned. “We’ll need it.”

“What we really need is a vehicle. We can’t hike out of these woods.” She looked at Rick, her heart giving a small leap as she realized his face was only inches away.

For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, and she was back in Tablis, her body tangled with his, hot and straining for more—more pleasure, more closeness, more communion. But the crackle of footsteps on the dry leaves in her yard dragged her back to the present, a sobering reminder that there were damned good reasons not to let herself get wrapped up in anyone again.

“Let me lead him away,” Rick suggested. “You can take the car and get out of here.”

“And leave you to die?” She shook her head. “No way in hell. I don’t leave a man behind.”

He gave her a quizzical look, and she dropped her gaze, hiding the chaos of emotion churning in her chest. He probably had no idea what had happened to her the day after they ended their affair. The CIA never publicized its casualties.

“We can’t wait here for him to reach us.”

“In my kitchen is a duffel bag. I packed it to run. I’m going around the back and out into the woods. I’ll lure him away from here. Where’s your car?”

“Parked down the road.”

“He may have seen it—and if he disabled it—”

“I hid it off the road. Didn’t want it stolen.”

“Take the duffel. Go to your car and drive a mile east. I’ll meet you if I make it.”

There was a pained look in his eyes as his gaze met hers. “No ifs,” he said fiercely. “You make it or else.”

She fought against a sudden flood of weakness. Where had he been when she was rotting in a Kaziri rebel prison, wondering if anyone remembered her at all?

You’re the one who started pushing him away.

But he was the one who’d spoken the final words.

“Wait for me to draw his fire away from here, then go inside. There’s a first-aid kit in the duffel, but I don’t think you’ll have time to waste.”

He moved suddenly, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her to him. “If you can kill him, do.” He kissed her forehead.

Swallowing hard, she scooted backward, losing cover for just a moment. No gunfire came her way, to her relief. She must have caught the attacker changing positions.