Shirlee McCoy - Valley of Shadows

“Someone set me up, Miranda. Planned everything that happened tonight to make me look guilty of a crime I didn’t commit. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“You’re honest, at least.”

“And you haven’t answered my question. What won’t we have a second chance at?”

“Getting out of the state. Out of the country.”

“Out of the country?” She tried out the words, found them bitter on her tongue. “No.”

“If we stay here, we’ll be caught. I’ve got few friends that I can turn to. No one that I’m willing to drag into this mess. My home is in Thailand. The DEA recruited me there. They hired me to come to the States and bring down a drug trafficker named Green.”

“Harold Green?” He owned several businesses in Essex. A moving company, a local grocery store. The funeral home.

“Right. He’s been importing drugs from Thailand for years, selling them, then laundering the money through his businesses. The DEA knows it, but finding the proof to close him down and put him away has been difficult.”

“So they sent you to do it for them?”

“I was sent in deep under cover. The only people who know I’m working the case are in Thailand. Their hope is that once they pull Green in, he’ll give them the names of his overseas contacts. I think someone in Thailand doesn’t want that to happen. Someone working for the DEA. I plan to find out who it is. It’s the only way to clear my name. And yours.”

“The DEA here…”

“Thinks I murdered one of their agents.”

“But—”

“Babe, we’re out of time. It takes five hours to get to Lakeview. Before we get there I need to know you’re with me on this.”

Was she? Miranda wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgement in the matter. The stakes were too high. She was too scared. “Do I have a choice?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He grimaced, his jaw tight. “You saved my life. I don’t want to leave you here to die because of it.”

There was truth in his words, in the grim determination in his eyes as they met hers. And despite herself, despite her doubt, Miranda knew she had to go with him. If there was a way out of this, it lay in the direction Hawke was going. That, at least, she felt sure of. “I guess I’m with you on it, then.”

Hawke smiled, the expression softening his face, changing it from danger to safety, from ice to warmth. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“So, now what?”

“Now, we head for Lakeview.” He turned toward the backseat, swayed, then slumped toward Miranda, his weight pushing her back toward the door and stealing her breath.

“Hawke? Hawke!” She pushed at his chest, her heart pounding. She slid her hand up to his neck, feeling for his pulse and finding the slick warmth of blood there.

“Hawke!” She shouted in his ear, desperate for a response.

This time he groaned, shifting slightly, his chin brushing against her cheek, razor stubble scratching at her skin. She shivered, pushing at him again and finally managing to maneuver him into his seat. His head slumped forward and she could see blood pooling in the hollow of his throat.

Miranda brushed a hand against his forehead and cheek, feeling for a fever the same way she had so many times when Justin was sick. But Hawke wasn’t a boy, he was a man, and he wasn’t sick, he was hurt.

And Miranda had no idea how to help him.

Yes, you do. You’ve taken first-aid classes. You know what to do. Stop panicking and think. Check respiration and pulse. Find the wound. Stop the bleeding. Get him to a doctor.

A doctor! That’s exactly what they needed. She could call 911, get an ambulance to take Hawke to the hospital while she spoke to the police and told them Hawke’s story and her own. The plan seemed reasonable, good even. Except for a few small things—Hawke was wanted for murder, she was wanted as an accessory and at least one person wanted them both dead.

Miranda frowned and leaned over the seat, searching for something to staunch the flow of blood that seemed to be coming from the back of Hawke’s head. She found a backpack on the floor, a map on the seat. She grabbed both, opening the first and pulling out packets of dried food, a bottle of water, a T-shirt and hat. At the bottom of the bag, she found a small plastic container. She opened it quickly, her hands shaking with adrenaline and fear. Gauze, bandages, needle, thread, several white pills packed in plastic bags, antiseptic wipes, an EpiPen—Hawke had prepared for minor medical emergencies. The only problem was, Miranda wasn’t sure minor was what she was dealing with.

She pulled out the gauze, then shifted Hawke’s head to the side, trying to find the wound. Her fingers probed the flesh behind his ear, wound through silky strands of hair. At the back of his head, close to the base of his skull, a hard lump oozed warm, sticky blood. She pressed the gauze to it, wincing in sympathy, though he seemed completely unaware of her ministrations. That couldn’t be good.

“Hawke?” He didn’t answer, and Miranda shook his shoulder, praying for some reaction.

His eyes remained closed, his head a leaden weight against her hand.

“Now what?” She whispered the question out loud, her mind scrambling for a plan, her eyes scanning the interior of the car. Hawke’s cell phone lay on the console between them, and she grabbed it. Maybe she could find the number of the person they were supposed to meet in Virginia.

She scrolled through the options, searching for an outgoing call log, praying that she’d find what she was looking for.

“What are you doing?” The words were a harsh growl, the hand that wrapped around her wrist just short of painful.

She gasped, her heart skipping a beat as she met Hawke’s cold gaze. “Trying to decide if I should call for help.”

He stared at her, his gaze never wavering as he straightened in his seat, slid his free hand over the gauze Miranda still held, and nudged her hand away from it. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

His tone matched his gaze—icy and unyielding, and Miranda knew he wasn’t a man who would take betrayal lightly; that he’d demand his own justice for any wrong done to him. She swallowed back her fear, tugging at the fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “You were unconscious and unresponsive. You need a doctor.”

“I need to catch our ride. I need to find the man who betrayed me. I do not need a doctor.” Hawke tried to add emphasis to his words, but they came out weaker than he intended. The fact was, he probably did need a doctor, but he didn’t have time for one. They didn’t have time for one.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly.” Miranda leaned in close, the scent of apples and cinnamon enveloping him.

No woman had a right to smell that good.

And Hawke had no business noticing.

Unless he missed his guess, Miranda was one of those rare people who remained untarnished by the world. He, on the other hand, was more tarnished than most.

He scowled, frustrated as much by the direction of his thoughts as he was by his physical weakness. “Bleeding is a whole lot better than being dead. Which is exactly what we’d both be if you’d been foolish enough to call an ambulance.”

At his harsh words, Miranda jerked back, her face pale in the dim light, her dark hair a mass of curls around her face. Hawke knew enough about fear to recognize it in her eyes. Guilt at putting it there made him want to wrap an arm around her shoulders and reassure her that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, he kept the gauze pressed to his head with one hand and grabbed the road map with the other. “Our six hours are ticking away while we sit here arguing. Put your seat belt back on and let’s go.”