Alice Sharpe - Hidden Identity

This had to be the work of Holton.

He dug his phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

“Yes?”

“Whip? It’s me, Adam.” He heard the warning buzz that announced the burner phone was running out of prepaid time. “Holton found me again. I’m headed out of the mountains.”

“Did the fake ID I sent you come?”

“I don’t know. I was going to check today, but not now. I’ll have to leave without it.” Adam felt terrible that he’d asked Whip, a cop, to break the law to help him get false identification, and now it was pointless.

“Damn. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. There was a crash—the hit man is dead. This is important. Holton...he’s still in prison, right?”

“As far as—”

It took a few seconds of silence for Adam to realize they’d been disconnected. He pocketed the phone and got to his feet. As he turned his back on the two dead men, a few scattered red petals beneath his feet caught his attention. The incongruity of their presence struck him. He kneeled to pick up one, pausing to smell it, its perfume at odds with the crashed aircraft and the encroaching odor of fuel.

“Is anyone else in here?” he called.

Was that a noise coming from behind the boxes?

He shifted a few out of the way and tossed them out the open door, ever mindful of the seconds ticking by. The baggage and boxes felt like they were filled with rocks.

And then he heard it again, a shifting as a body tried to find comfort, but this time it was followed by a plaintive moan.

He worked faster.

* * *

HER EYES OPENED SLOWLY. She was unsure where she was or what had happened. Her body hurt in a hundred places and for some reason, she was trapped in an avalanche of heavy boxes. Admonishing herself to think despite her throbbing head, she shifted position to ease the pressure on her legs. A groan escaped her lips and faded away.

A male voice immediately responded. “Is someone back there? How many of you are there? Can you move?”

She tried to respond but could barely hear her own voice.

“I’m coming,” the man called. “What’s your name?”

Again she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Where was she, what had happened to her? She closed her eyes, her head drooping.

The man kept talking. “Stay with me,” he said, “I’m almost there.” Crashes followed his comments as though he was throwing stuff aside. At last he cleared her face and she saw that she was all but entombed in a small airplane. She smelled gasoline and it reminded her of something—something she couldn’t name, wasn’t sure about.

The man continued clearing the space as she wiped her face, smearing something warm and sticky across her brow. Blood, she discovered, as she looked at her fingers.

He kneeled down to face her. His hair was bright yellow and he needed a shave. Dark gray eyes peered at her from behind black-framed glasses. As he stared at her, his expression went from concern to shock. The next thing she knew, he’d cupped her chin and kissed her, his lips undeniably soft and gentle and yet with a stirring of something else, too. Then he sat back and stroked her cheek, smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead. “Chelsea, good heavens, what are you doing here?”

“I—”

“Oh, my God,” he said as though something obvious had just popped into his head. “They must have used you to—did they hurt...? Never mind, we’ll talk later. We have to get out of here. Can you move? Is anything broken?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I—I don’t think so...”

He unbuckled her seat straps as she mumbled. He stood and extended his hands to pull her to her feet. She was able to stand but it put her and her rescuer so close their bodies touched. Super aware of her breasts pressing against his chest, she felt uncomfortable and awkward. He seemed fine with it. “Catch your breath and your balance,” he said. “Where’s your phone?”

She shook her head.

“May I check your pockets?”

Was he making any sense? She couldn’t tell. He frisked her gently and she felt his hand hit against a small hard shape in her jeans pocket. He plucked the phone from her person, wiped it with the hem of his shirt and dropped it to the floor. “Sorry, but this has to stay here.”

She nodded but her fuzzy brain immediately went back to the way his lips had felt against hers. Why had he kissed her? Why were his hands on her now?

“You were sitting alone back here, weren’t you? Do you have a handbag or luggage?”

A handbag? She looked down at the cluttered floor, fighting a wave of nausea that swam up her throat. She didn’t know if she had one or not. Who cared?

He pushed aside a few things and swore. “There’s not enough room in here for me to move if you’re standing. Sit back down until I get outside, then walk to the door and I’ll help you. Let’s do it as quickly as we can, okay?”

She nodded again and sat. He climbed from the plane, reached inside and swept a bunch of crushed red flowers out of the way. “Walk over here to me,” he said. “You can do it.”

She stood, steadying herself by grabbing the back of the seat in front of her. Her head spun and she felt nauseous, but the sensations passed. She glanced down and to her left and found a blood-covered man belted into the pilot’s seat. His sightless eyes looked blank. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Just come to the door,” her rescuer urged.

She did as he told her, mainly because she couldn’t think of another plan. Gazing down at him, she paused for a second. His bloody unbuttoned shirt revealed a well-muscled chest, while the strap crossing his body was attached to a rifle held behind his left shoulder. He’d tucked a handgun into his waistband. He looked like someone you saw on a news report, a mercenary or a bandit, a man not to be taken lightly, sexy and scary at the same time.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. He clutched her waist and effortlessly lifted her out of the aircraft. She landed right in front of him, once again standing too close.

“Steady now. Dizzy?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Unable to process the intensity of his expression, she lowered her gaze to the ground, where she found the bruised red flowers. He kneeled in front of her and plucked a small gold foil card from the ribbon that held their stems together and shoved it in his pocket. Taking her hand, he led her a few steps from the crash. She looked back once.

Not a plane, but a helicopter, or what was left of one. The image of the dead pilot’s slack, bloodied face filled her head. Had she known him? Was he her boyfriend or husband or something? Then why was she sitting in the back? Why couldn’t she think?

And wait, had there been someone in the passenger seat, too? She wasn’t sure.

Keep moving , she willed herself as they left the path and took off into the dense forest, ripe with dark mysteries that mirrored those playing out in her brain. The only thing she was sure of was the lifeline of her rescuer’s warm fingers.

Okay, so where were the questions, the accusations? As Adam guided Chelsea onto the cabin’s surrounding deck, he steeled himself for a barrage of all of the above, but none came. Once on the deck, he grabbed the binoculars he kept hanging from a nail under the eaves, then used them to scan the horizon and the small road that emptied into the meadow. So far, so good.

The sky had grown dark and the smell of impending rain filled his nostrils. How long did he have before more of Holton’s men showed up?

He put back the binoculars and discovered Chelsea had disappeared. He found her sitting on the sofa, blood smeared across her face, hands limp in her lap. He crossed to the bathroom, where he moistened a clean washcloth and grabbed the box of bandages. As always, the glimpse of his own altered appearance in the mirror jarred him. So did the dead man’s blood all over his shirt. He grabbed a clean one and changed.