Paula Graves - Secret Identity

She edged her way around the side of the house, straining for any sound ahead. Her house butted up to a bluff, offering little room to maneuver. But if she could get around to the other side of the house, the woods spread for almost three miles to the east. She knew Bridal Veil Woods like the back of her hand. If she could get a head start into the cover of the trees, she could outmaneuver the gunman and get away.

Or get the drop on him.

RICK’S ARM WAS HURTING like a son of a bitch, but the wound was superficial, a bloody graze on his upper left arm that would require some first aid once he had a chance to breathe again but wasn’t likely to cause him any real problems. He found the duffel bag in the kitchen, lying on the floor where she’d left it, probably when he knocked on her door unexpectedly.

He wasn’t sure why Tara—Amanda—was hiding out in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, but something had gone terribly wrong since the last time he’d seen her. He’d seen it in her haunted blue eyes.

What had the CIA done to her?

He hauled the duffel bag over one shoulder and headed to the back door, waiting for the bark of her Smith & Wesson to the east, his signal to make a run for it.

When the gunfire came, it was a pair of shots. One impossibly close, the other from the woods to the right of the house.

Then silence.

Rick froze in place, not sure what to do next. After a beat, he heard footfalls on the front porch, slow but steady.

He leveled his Walther at the door, his heart pounding a familiar, rapid-fire cadence. He’d been away from war zones a year now, but some things a man never forgot.

“Rick, it’s me.” Amanda’s voice came through the thin wooden door. “I’m unlocking the door and coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”

He kept the Walther steady, aware she could be speaking at the point of a gun.

There was a rattle of the doorknob, the slide of a key into the lock and the scrape of the dead bolt disengaging. The door swung open and Amanda entered alone, looking pale and jittery. “I shot him. He’s dead,” she said. “I need you to see if he’s the man you remember from the gas station.”

He laid a comforting hand on her arm when he reached her side. Her muscles twitched at his touch, as if she was ready to bolt at any second. Probably was—it was hard to control the physiological instinct for fight or flight, even if you were a highly trained intelligence officer.

The body of the shooter lay on the grass in front of her yard, blood still oozing from a chest shot. “Good aim,” he murmured, circling the body to get a look at the man’s face.

What he saw there came as a complete surprise.

“It’s not the guy from the Land Cruiser,” he said aloud, his voice tight and strained.

“But you recognize him?” she asked.

He nodded. “His name is Delman Riggs.” He looked up at her, his heart in his throat. “He used to work for MacLear.”

Chapter Three

“We have to move his body.” Amanda kept her voice low and calm, even though an endless shriek of terror played in a constant loop in her mind, echoing the memories that would never leave her as long as she lived.

But she had to focus on what needed to be done now. She could fall apart later, when she was finally alone again.

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Move his body where?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. We have about five minutes before the police get here. My neighbors will call in the gunfire. We’ve got to move now.”

“Why don’t we stick around and talk to the cops.” Rick spoke to her in a careful voice, as if he realized how close she was to snapping. “We’ll tell them what happened. I have the wound to prove we were under fire.”

She stared at him. “The Thurlow Gap cops aren’t cut out for a mess like this. Do you honestly think this will be the only attempt on my life?” She checked the Smith & Wesson’s clip to make sure she’d fired only four shots in the chaos. God knew how many more rounds she might need before this nightmare was over. “We’re wasting time talking about this.”

Rick stared at her. She saw the moment he realized she was right, that they couldn’t stay here and wait for the cops. But it was clear from his expression that he didn’t want to bug out. He wanted to handle this mess the normal way—call the cops, make a report, then forget about it and go on with life.

Good for him. She was glad he’d found his own little dose of normal in the world.

But she never would.

Sliding the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, she headed up the porch steps. “If you want to talk to the locals, fine. Stay here and chat it out with them. I have to go.” She went into the house, picked up the duffel bag Rick had left just inside and carried it out to the porch.

“How are you getting out of here? You think they won’t put out an APB for your car?” Rick asked from the bottom of the steps as she descended.

“I’ll walk.” She slung the heavy duffel bag over her shoulder, looping her arm through the canvas strap.

“And get picked up before you reach the next county.” Rick shook his head, falling in step with her as she headed toward the woods. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

She stopped at the edge of the clearing, taking a good look at him. The past three years had been kinder to him than her. He’d always been good-looking, but the intervening years had added lines of maturity to his face that suited him. His dark eyes looked older, too. Wiser, maybe. A lot more jaded.

She could sympathize with that.

“I don’t know where I want to go,” she admitted. “I just want to get out of here before the people around here end up getting hurt. They don’t deserve this kind of mess. And I’m not ready to offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb.”

“There’s going to be a mess, no matter what we do,” Rick warned. “If you disappear, no warning, no goodbyes, and the cops come here and find bullet holes riddling your carport—”

“All right! You’re right. There’s going to be a mess.” A manic energy bubbled in her chest, driving her relentlessly toward desperation. “So let’s make it a big mess.”

Reversing course, she jogged around to the back of the cabin, where she kept the gasoline generator that had gotten her through one frigid winter when the mountain snowfall had knocked out her electricity. Next to the generator stood the weatherproof bin where she kept a five-gallon container of gasoline. She’d just stocked up a couple of days earlier, in anticipation of next week’s promised thunderstorms.

She didn’t like to be stuck in the dark. Not anymore.

Rick caught up with her. “What are you doing?”

Amanda pulled the gas can from the bin and pulled off the cap. The pungent odor of gasoline fumes wafted around her, fueling her sense that she’d reached a point of no return. She met Rick’s troubled gaze, her lips curving in a ghost of a smile. “Remember Choqori?”

His eyes widened. “You’re not going to—”

“Burn it to the ground?” A ripple of laughter escaped her throat. It sounded like madness. “Oh, yes. Yes, I am.”

WITHIN TEN MINUTES, they’d made it through the woods undetected and headed out of Thurlow Gap, driving south, leaving behind one hell of a bonfire. They’d already heard sirens heading for Amanda’s property, which meant the fire would be put out sooner or later. And, eventually, people would probably be seeking Amanda for questioning about the charred body inside.

But they could worry about that problem another day, Rick thought as he tore off a piece of his shredded shirtsleeve to get a better look at the bloody groove in his upper arm. He grimaced at the sight of the torn and friction-burned skin.