True Shot Page 11

  “She’s only nineteen,” Flinn said, sounding defensive. “She still needs months of training, maybe more. And you’ll need time to figure out a way to suppress this . . . psychosomatic reaction. We can’t have her bearing other people’s injuries while on assignment.”

  “That will require more testing.”

  “Fine, whatever you need to do.”

  Sam forced her eyes open at that. More tests? No way in hell. She’d die first. The bright light overhead stabbed into her eyes, but she couldn’t lift her hand to shield them. She curled her hands into fists and jerked against the restraints.

  “Ah, here she is,” Dr. Ames said.

  She turned her head toward the voice and squinted at N3’s doctor of psychic spying. He had red hair, pink skin that looked fresh-scrubbed and a thick layer of freckles that disappeared into his hairline. A grown-up Opie with all his hair.

  He shined a penlight into one eye and then the other, sending twin spears of pain into her brain. “How do you feel, Agent West?”

  She tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was impossibly dry.

  “Agent West?” he repeated. “Can you tell me how you feel?”

  “Headache,” she murmured.

  He made a note in her chart. “Tell me what you saw.”

  She shifted her gaze to Flinn and had to swallow against the choking sensation that rose with the memory of his terror. Her memory now. His childhood tragedy was forever imbedded in her mind.

  She strained against the leather cuffs at her wrists, wanting to scream, to just lose it and shriek until her voice gave out. She was tired, exhausted from being their guinea pig for whatever they cooked up—drugs, electrical shocks, sleep deprivation—to test the extent of her psychic ability. She couldn’t take any more.

  She implored Flinn with her eyes. “I want to go home. Please.”

  “You have to focus, Agent West,” Dr. Ames said. “I need you to answer my questions.”

  She kept her gaze locked on Flinn’s face. He was the one who’d brought her here. Maybe he could take her back. “Let me go to prison. I’ll do my time. I just want to see my family.”

  Dr. Ames’ blue eyes narrowed as they skewered Flinn. “Did you not explain to her that she can’t have contact of any kind with her family?”

  “What?” She tried to push herself up into a sitting position, dizzy and frustrated by her inability to move freely. “No, let me go. Please.” God, she felt sick. Sick and tired and alone . . . so alone.

  “Your past life is over, Samantha,” Flinn said. “You’re a federal agent now. Anonymity is key. That’s the trade-off you made when you agreed to my proposition.”

  “I don’t understand. You never said—”

  “Every detail was spelled out in the contract you signed.”

  “I didn’t have enough time to read the—”

  “It doesn’t matter now, Samantha. You signed it. You’re legally bound by the federal government of the United States to adhere to the contract. That means no contact whatsoever with your family or friends from your past life. Samantha Trudeau no longer exists.”

  Sam opened her eyes to the dark of night, the swish-thump of windshield wipers and the hum of tires on wet pavement. For a moment, she kept still, assessing the situation before giving away her consciousness. Her shoulder throbbed, and a thick, aching fuzziness filled her head. The dream—or perhaps a flashback, considering its vivid reality—was already evaporating like cold water on hot asphalt, wisping into the air before she could grasp all of its meaning.

  She remembered another dizzying rush of information, the one that had flooded her mind back in that dingy motel room. Much of it rushed through her again, a cacophony of memories that made no sense. Many of them, along with the flashback just now, terrified her.

  “I’m an intelligence agent. The man we left tied up at the cabin is Flinn Ford. He’s my boss at N3.”

  “N3?”

  “National Neural Network. It’s a secret division of the FBI. The agents have psychic abilities.”

  She shut her eyes and willed the panic to subside. She was a spy. A psychic spy. With no memory. And a man named Flinn Ford, her boss, wanted her dead.

  Why? And . . . really? Psychic? Psychotic sounded easier to accept.

  “Flinn impregnated a fellow N3 operative named Zoe Harris. I think he’s trying to create some kind of super psychic spy by combining the DNA of two N3 empaths.”

  She searched her memory for Zoe Harris and came up empty. She couldn’t even feel grief that the woman had been killed. She remembered telling Mac that Zoe had a sister and that Zoe would have wanted her to do . . . something. She didn’t know what. Warn her, most likely. Her memory of that flood of information yielded no name for Zoe’s sister.

  Damn it.

  She’d obviously tried to tell Mac as much as she could about her situation, to try to orient herself after she lost her memory, to give herself enough information to go on. The attempt had failed. The images came through so fragmented, so overwhelming, mixed with liberal doses of Mac’s disbelief and anxiety, that very little of the mess made sense to her. Who was this Sledge? How could he help her? And if her boss at the FBI wanted her dead, did that make her a good guy or a bad guy?

  She had no idea where to begin.

  She searched her memory, as fragile and insubstantial as cotton candy, and got nowhere. When her temples began to pulse with pain, she gave up the effort and decided to focus on the present.

  She knew this much: She was in a car. A new one, judging by the new-car smell.

  A man sat next to her. A man with a clean scent that reminded her of the fresh rain that streamed in rivulets down the passenger-side window. She was warm and toasty, under the spread of a leather jacket that carried the same scent as the man in the driver’s seat.

  Security.

  Perhaps a false sense of it.

  With no memory, how would she know if she was safe?

  She thought of another face, a face that she somehow knew belonged to the leather jacket. Warm, greenish brown eyes, at once concerned and quizzical. Dimples that deepened along with a self-deprecating smile. A light stubble of dark beard that shadowed a strong jaw. A rich voice that resonated with both humor and resolve. Broad shoulders and muscular arms that promised to catch her when things spiraled out of control.

  Mac Hunter.

  A name and face that promised safety despite the lies he’d told her the first time she’d awakened to him. Interesting that his presence next to her in the car somehow reassured her, yet she knew next to nothing about him. And she sure wasn’t going to find out anything by playing possum.

  She shifted straighter in her seat and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Where are we?”

  “Oh, hey,” Mac said, glancing sideways at her and grinning. “You slept a long time.”

  His smile, both eager and relieved, warmed her. She could do this. “How long?”

  “Six hours.”

  Had they been driving the entire time? “Where are we?”

  “Middle of South Carolina. I’ve been keeping to the back roads to avoid the interstate.”

  Good idea, she thought, and wondered whether he’d made that choice on his own or because she’d told him to do that before she’d lost her memory.

  Then something else about the car registered. It wasn’t the Suburban she remembered from before. “This is a different car.”

  “I switched while you were out. Made a stop at a restaurant that has valet parking and swiped a set of keys when the valet’s podium was unmanned. Smooth, huh?”

  And much more likely to have the cops on their tails sooner rather than later, especially once Flinn tracked the Suburban’s GPS to its location. Damn it, why hadn’t Mac followed her instructions to take a car from an auto-repair shop after closing time?

  “Disconnected the battery on the Suburban,” he said. “Figured that would disable the GPS, buy us a little more time.”

  Oh. Okay. She couldn’
t deny the good thinking there.

  “Switched the plates, too. This is a silver Camry. There’s about a billion of them on the road. So far, so good, I think, considering no one’s bothered us for six hours.”

  Satisfied, and impressed, she let her muscles relax some, feeling as though she could melt into the comfortable seat and drift off for another six hours. God, she hurt. Everything ached. Her head, her shoulder. A spot between her shoulder blades itched, and a roll of her shoulders pulled at the tape of a smaller bandage there. What was that from?

  “You must be starving,” Mac said. “How about we stop at the next diner and get some food? I could use some time to stretch my legs.”

  She gave him a distracted nod, though food didn’t make the top five of her priorities at the moment. “Where are we going?”

  “Lake Avalon, Florida.”

  “Home,” she said at the same time she thought it. An automatic response?

  “You remember that Lake Avalon is home?” Mac asked, surprised. “That’s a good sign.”

  Her stomach twisted with uneasiness, and she frowned. Shouldn’t the thought of home evoke a warm and fuzzy sensation? Yet her instincts started screaming at her as urgently as a storm-warning siren. She’d just had a flashback in which Flinn Ford told her she could have no contact whatsoever with her family or friends.

  Samantha Trudeau no longer exists.

  “We can’t go to Lake Avalon,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

  “We’ve been on the road for hours, Sam, and no one’s looked at us twice. I think we’re in the clear.”

  “He’ll go to Lake Avalon and wait for me there.”

  “So we won’t go anywhere in Lake Avalon that he expects us to go.”

  “But—”

  “Look, we can’t avoid this guy on our own. I’m not a government agent, and you don’t have your memory. We need help, Sam.”

  She rubbed at the center of her forehead. Think. She had to think. A name came to her from her frantic words to Mac before she’d lost her memory. “What about Sledge?”

  Mac glanced askance at her, one eyebrow sharply arched. “You remember?”

  “No, but I . . . yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s all a jumble in my head. Not a whole lot of it makes sense right now.”

  Mac was silent a long moment before he responded. “Before you lost your memory, you told me you have a psychic ability. You said you can touch me and . . . and tap into my memories or my past or something. You said it all so fast, I can’t remember it all. You said it worked through skin-on-skin contact.”

  She nodded. “I remember that from what I saw earlier. It was a kind of . . . flashback or something. It was like I was you, and you were listening to me tell you . . .” She trailed off, as though sorting through the memory again. “It was overwhelming.”

  “Is that why you passed out? Because that scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Probably. The memory rushed into my head too fast. It was like my brain couldn’t keep up.” She paused, remembering his reaction in the flashback. “You thought I was nuts.”

  “I wouldn’t go using the past tense on that just yet.”

  “But I do have this ability. I did tap into your memory. That’s how I remembered the name Sledge.”

  “You didn’t tell me who that is. You just said the name. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “No, but I obviously thought he could help since I told you about him.”

  “So how do we reach him?” Mac asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s probably not even his real name. How many people do you know named Sledge?”

  “At least one.”

  His lips curved into an amused smile. “Doesn’t help.”

  “I just don’t think Lake Avalon is the place to go.”

  “That’s where your family is. And they’re very well connected when it comes to law enforcement. Both your sisters are involved with cops.”

  “No. Flinn will use them against me.” She knew this with certainty, even as the thought of home created a sharp clutch of longing in the center of her chest.

  “He can do that whether we go there or not,” Mac said. “In fact, he’s probably already making plans.”

  She shot him an alarmed glance.

  He gave a helpless shrug. “Just saying. It seems like his style.”

  “I think it’d be best if you dropped me off somewhere and took a vacation in Montana or Canada.”

  “No. No way. You need me, Sam. I’m not leaving you.”

  “Why? What . . .” She shook her head, at a loss. “Why are you doing this? I mean nothing to you.”

  It took him several seconds to respond. Finally, he said, “I promised your sister.”

  “You—What?” Her pulse began to throb in her ears.

  “While you were out of it, I called Charlie. I promised her I’d get you home in one piece.”

  “You . . . you called Charlie? From the motel?”

  “No, no, of course not. And not from my cell, either. I bought a prepaid phone at the drugstore. One of those untraceable kinds.”

  “They’re not untraceable. Yes, your name and information aren’t associated with a specific phone, but the calls can still be traced from the other end.”

  The car slowed as he lifted his foot off the gas. “What? No. No, they’re not traceable. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m a spy. Don’t you think I know how this stuff works?”

  “Well, there is the memory thing.”

  “I didn’t forget this.”

  “I just thought—”

  “You thought wrong. Your name isn’t connected to the phone. But your location is. All Flinn had to do was keep tabs on my sisters’ lines in case I called them for help then have the call traced from their end to my location.”

  “Shit. That’s how the son of a bitch found us in Front Royal.”

  She glanced out the side window, too tired to sustain her irritation at his inability to follow simple directions. She probably hadn’t given him enough information in the first place. She’d most likely said: Don’t use your cell phone. And he hadn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—Jesus, I’m sorry.”

  She closed her eyes. Why did she feel as though she’d just kicked a puppy? A really cute and cuddly one. One that smelled . . . heavenly. Like leather and fresh rain and . . . hunky man. She couldn’t squelch her urge to ease his anxiety. “We survived.”

  “That asshole got his hands on you. If I hadn’t been an idiot . . .”

  “There’s no point in beating yourself up about it. Let’s focus on finding a place to stop. We can figure out our next move while we get something to eat.”

  His shoulders sagged in the dim light of the car. “Okay. Sure. That sounds like a plan I can live with.”

  She realized a moment later what she’d just done: She’d responded in a way that implied that they were indeed in this together. “We can figure out our next move.” When had she made the transition from “What am I going to do” to “What are we going to do”?

  And was she handing a good man a death sentence?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Garden City Diner in Orangeburg, South Carolina, was a brown-brick, A-frame building with a bright red roof made of Spanish tiles. Inside, a forest of tropical flowers, potted palms and ferns surrounded red vinyl booths and a long counter with cushioned metal stools.

  The diner smelled of French fries and rich coffee, and Mac’s stomach growled in anticipation of some low-country comfort food.

  “I hope they have mac and cheese,” he said as he slid across the bench seat in a corner booth. “The baked kind with crunchy stuff on top like Paula Deen makes. And don’t even bother to rib me about a guy named Mac wanting some mac and cheese.”

  When Sam didn’t respond or sit, he glanced up. She stood beside the table, anxiety etching lines in her forehead.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Switch places
with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to see . . . everything.”

  Instead of arguing with her spy instincts, he switched to the opposing seat and watched her gracefully slide in across from him. With her back to the wall, she quickly scanned their surroundings, evidently searching for possible threats among the other customers ordering up or devouring late-night snacks. It was a hell of a way to live.

  The waitress, a middle-aged black woman in tight faded jeans and a pink T-shirt that displayed the words “life is good” on her ample breasts, ambled over. “Howdy, folks. Welcome to the Garden City. I’m Roz. Coffee?”

  Mac smiled at her. “Please. Fully leaded.”

  “Water, please,” Sam said.

  While the waitress splashed steaming coffee into Mac’s cup, Sam continued stalking the other patrons with her eyes. The glimpse Mac had gotten as they’d walked in had revealed a couple of trucker-looking guys chowing down at the counter, an elderly couple quietly arguing as they shared a piece of coconut cream pie and a pair of leather-clad biker dudes tearing through matching mounds of fried catfish and hush puppies. Almost all of them paid more attention to the TV in the corner, tuned to a reality show he didn’t recognize, than to their respective companions.

  “What do you see?” Mac asked.

  Sam blinked before focusing on him with guarded eyes. “What? Nothing.”

  “What are you looking for then?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’d know it if I saw it.” She scanned the diner again, this time finding something she sought. As she slid out of the booth, she said, “I’m going to the ladies’ room. If the waitress returns, I’ll have a salad. Whatever they have.”

  He wondered whether he should follow. What if she slipped out the back door and took off on her own? Of course, if she did, there wasn’t much he could do about it. If he tried to stop her, he had no doubt she could put him down with one karate chop. Or tae kwon do chop. If tae kwon do had such moves. He had no idea. And what did it matter?

  Jesus, he was so wiped he could barely function.