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  “Bad people?”

  “She’s on the run, Charlie. She’s involved . . . in something.”

  “Tell me where you are. Noah and I will come—”

  “I don’t think we can stay in one spot for too long.”

  “God, Mac, what the hell? Is Sam there with you? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s sleeping.” He winced, but it had seemed better than saying, She lost consciousness after being drugged out of her memory.

  A long beat went by in which Mac knew Charlie debated how to respond. “Is she okay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You need to tell me where you are. Noah—”

  “We can’t stay here. We need to keep moving.”

  “Mac, please. If Sam needs help—”

  “I’m helping her. I’m—”

  “Noah can get law enforcement involved. And so can—”

  “No! No law enforcement. Seriously. I know this is crazy, but I’m not sure who to trust right now.”

  “You can trust me and Noah.”

  “I know that. Of course, I know that. I meant about getting law enforcement involved. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I . . . Jesus, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’re going to be all freaked out—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

  He had no idea. But he also knew how much Sam meant to Charlie and Alex. “I’m going to keep her safe. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know it’s not. But I need you to know that, okay? You can count on me for this.” Like you couldn’t count on me when we were together.

  “Mac, please. Just tell me where—”

  “I’ll bring her home. I’m going to bring your sister home.”

  Charlie made a choking sound, as though trying to hold back a sob. He heard another sound in the background, the low thrum of Noah’s voice asking, “What’s wrong?”

  Sam sighed then, and Mac glanced over at the bed in time to see her eyelids flutter. “I have to go,” he said into the phone. “I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

  He cut off the call and powered down the phone before Charlie could respond.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Flinn Ford slipped out of the conference room and snatched his new, vibrating cell phone from the interior pocket of his jacket. The name of his favorite N3 research analyst on the caller ID display heartened him. “Talk to me, Nat.”

  “We’ve got a fix on Hunter, sir. He’s in Front Royal, Virginia.”

  Flinn’s insides fluttered with relief. He’d reluctantly returned to DC for the time-wasting meeting he’d just ducked out of, but Marco was still well west of the District, hopefully not far at all from Front Royal. He’d be able to locate—and sit on—Samantha and Hunter in no time.

  “How’d you find Hunter so fast?”

  “He called Samantha’s sister in Lake Avalon. Used a prepaid cell phone. Probably thought he was being sneaky. Dumbass.” A brief pause, then, “Sir.”

  Flinn grinned at Natalie’s disgust, as well as her belated respect. He’d always been fond of her. Too bad she had no psychic abilities. “Do you have coordinates? Marco’s out that way.”

  “He’s on his way to Strasburg to meet with one of the new hires you requested.”

  Flinn’s grin grew. “Very efficient, Nat. I’m impressed.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “And you hit the target every time. How close is he to Strasburg?”

  “He left the cabin about fifteen minutes ago,” she said.

  “Divert him to Front Royal to detain Samantha and Hunter. I’ll meet him there.” He’d have to decide then what to do with them.

  “And the new hire?”

  “Send someone else to pick him up.”

  “Should I arrange some backup for Marco, sir? Sloan’s in Alexandria waiting for the handoff in Old Town. Should go down any minute, and then he could hit the road—”

  “I don’t want Sloan anywhere near this thing,” he said sharply. Then he softened his tone before he went on, to let her know he wasn’t angry with her. He just didn’t trust Sloan Decker these days. “Samantha’s well out of commission by now, and Hunter’s a civilian. He doesn’t even know how to handle a weapon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Nat . . . let’s keep all of this between you and me. There’s no reason to get Assistant Director Leigh or anyone else involved. Do we understand each other?”

  “Of course, sir. You know you can count on me for whatever you need.”

  He examined the reddened stripe around his left wrist where the twine had cut into his flesh. He thought of his cell phone, smashed to bits under Hunter’s heel.

  He had a score to settle with that man.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sam stirred again under the covers, and Mac went still in the chair across from the bed. She was regaining consciousness, and this was the part of the plan he had no clue how to handle. She’d told him to touch her as soon as she woke. But how would she make sense of something so unbelievable? He couldn’t make sense of it, and he had his memory.

  Her head moved, and he watched her eyes open more fully. She blinked slowly, trying to get oriented, and her brow soon furrowed.

  Confusion had set in.

  He edged out of the chair and approached the bed. When he stood beside it, he waited for her eyes to track and focus on him, then he smiled and sat on the edge, careful to keep his distance from any possible skin-on-skin contact, as well as trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “How’re you feeling?”

  Her eyes narrowed, lost focus. “Where . . . who . . .”

  He gave her flannel-covered arm a gentle squeeze. The deep blue of the shirt she wore—his shirt—made her eyes a darker shade of blue. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just relax.”

  She glanced around, trying to recognize the room. “Where . . .”

  He’d really hoped she’d exaggerated the extent of her memory loss. But, no, she’d told the truth. “We’re in a motel in Front Royal, Virginia,” he told her. Slow and gentle. No reason to get agitated. “Your name is Samantha Trudeau. I’m Mac Hunter.”

  “Who . . .”

  “We’re friends, Sam.”

  She tried to push herself up but stopped with a ragged moan, her hand going to her shoulder as her features blanched whiter still. “What—”

  Mac grasped her uninjured shoulder to stop her from trying to sit up farther. “Just be still for a minute, okay?”

  “What’s wrong with my shoulder? Did I have an accident?”

  “Yes. It’s going to be fine, but you need to baby it for a while.” When she appeared reluctant to ease back down, he grabbed the extra pillow, helped her to sit up then stashed it behind her back.

  She watched him the entire time, forehead creased, eyes still slightly out of focus. The need to sleep obviously pulled at her, but she fought it. “I know you?”

  “Yes. We’re friends.”

  “I don’t remember . . .” She rolled her head on the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Why don’t I remember?”

  He sank back onto the edge of the bed. This was the part where he was supposed to touch her so she could “flash” on his memories using her “empathy.” He couldn’t force himself to do it. The fear in her dark blue eyes already tore at him. He couldn’t scare her more, regardless of how competent she’d been when he’d seen her in action. That was then. This Sam Trudeau had no memory. This Sam Trudeau was vulnerable and lost.

  He decided to lie, just until she had her bearings, until he’d had a chance to figure out what to do. “You had a bad reaction to a drug.”

  “I did? What kind of drug?”

  “Painkiller. For your shoulder. The doctor said it would take a few days, but you’ll be fine.”

  Her gaze flitted around the room, as though she tried to reconcile medical care with thi
s grungy motel setting.

  “We’re on vacation,” he said. “Hiking in the Shenandoahs. Do you remember the Shenandoahs?”

  “I . . . don’t know. Hiking? I don’t remember hiking. I don’t remember . . . you.”

  “You hurt your shoulder, and we checked in here to give you some time to feel better. That’s when you reacted badly to the pain medicine.”

  “Oh.”

  “The doctor said the adverse reaction will affect your memory. It’s temporary.” Amazing how effortless it was to lie.

  She frowned. “I’ve never heard of . . .”

  “That’s probably because of the memory thing. The best thing you can do is just relax and let me do all the work, okay?”

  She let her head fall back against the pillow. “Dizzy.”

  He knew how that went. After his encounter with Skip Alteen’s pipe wrench, he’d ridden the Sit ’N Spin for weeks. “It’ll pass.” He hoped. “Do you need anything? Bathroom?”

  “No.”

  That surprised him, but then, she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since he’d found her in the cabin. She might have been dehydrated even then. “How about something to eat? It’d take me just a few minutes to make a run.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “You need to eat and drink something. It’s been a long time.”

  “Later,” she murmured, already drifting off.

  “I’m going to go get some food, okay? Just rest. Don’t try to get up while I’m gone. I don’t want you to fall if you get dizzy.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “Okay, Sam?”

  She nodded without opening her eyes.

  “I’ll be gone only a few minutes.”

  The steady rise and fall of her chest indicated she’d already fallen back to sleep.

  After tucking the covers securely around her—and resisting the silly urge to lean down and kiss her forehead—Mac grabbed the room key and headed out the door.

  As soon as she heard the door click shut, she opened her eyes and shoved aside the covers. She took a moment to gather her strength before using her good arm to push herself into a sitting position. Colored stars burst before her eyes, and she breathed through the pain and the spinning.

  God, she felt bad. Weak and dizzy and confused.

  He’d said his name was Mac Hunter. He’d called her Sam Trudeau. The names meant nothing to her. Nothing meant anything. This motel room. The hiking accident. Especially the buzz of white noise inside her skull.

  All she knew for sure: Mac Hunter was a liar. He’d avoided her gaze when he’d told her about hiking. Classic mistake. Funny how she knew that with such certainty yet couldn’t remember her own name. Or his name. Or how she got here. Or where “here” was.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she hunched her shoulder against the deep throbbing ache and wiped the back of her hand over the dampness of her forehead.

  Everything hurt, like she had a terrible flu. Maybe she did.

  Or maybe she’d been tortured for months then dumped here with a good-looking man with kind eyes and dimples who assured her she was safe and insisted on feeding her, a scenario designed to gain her trust.

  The alarm she felt at the thought—and what must have happened to her to cause such suspicion despite her memory loss—persuaded her to stop wasting time and move.

  As she swayed to her feet, her stomach shifted and clenched, and she had to grab on to the headboard for balance. Okay, so moving fast wasn’t an option.

  The soft pants she wore hung from her hips. Not hers, she realized. Same for the flannel shirt that drooped off one shoulder, revealing the bandage underneath.

  These weren’t her clothes. Where were her clothes?

  She scanned the room for luggage or duffels. Saw nothing except two white plastic grocery bags on the table in the corner.

  Another horrible thought struck her: Maybe these were her clothes, and they no longer fit because she’d been a prisoner for so long that she’d lost a significant amount of weight. But, no, that didn’t make sense. The clothing was so clean that the scent of fabric softener clung to it.

  When she trusted her legs, she checked out the grocery bags and found bandages, hydrogen peroxide and a bottle of Advil in one. No prescriptions. That didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t there be antibiotics for her shoulder?

  The decimated packaging for a prepaid cell phone filled the other bag, the phone gone. Not that she would have known who to call, except maybe 911.

  Next stop: the bathroom.

  Her wobbly legs got her there upright. When she turned on the light, she squinted against the brightness, raising a hand against the stabbing glare. Her head ached, a steady, throbbing bass line of pain behind her eyes.

  Hangover? Not from alcohol, she thought. Well, possibly. But more likely from drugs, which fit with what Mac had told her. But she still didn’t believe him. Something was off here . . . more off than just her memory loss.

  At the vanity, she braced her hands on the sink and studied her reflection, hoping for a spark of recognition.

  Long, curling black hair. Eyes that were more slate than blue, underscored by the dark circles of fatigue . . . or sickness. Straight, narrow nose. A subtle cleft in her chin. Pale skin. She didn’t look healthy. Too thin, too drawn, exhaustion etched into the lines in her forehead.

  Worse: She didn’t know those lines.

  Or the rest of her face.

  Her legs started to shake, threatening to buckle, but she stayed in front of the mirror, determined to gain control over her body. She didn’t have much time before Mac returned.

  Getting the shirt unbuttoned required dexterity her fingers were reluctant to deliver, but she kept at it until she could ease the fabric over and off her bandaged shoulder. Then, shivering in the chill bathroom, she went to work on the haphazard surgical tape. Her breath whistled through her teeth as she pulled the gauze away to reveal massive bruising around a puckered, viciously red hole in her flesh.

  She realized then that the back of her shoulder sported a similar bandage.

  Her vision abruptly tunneled, and she backed away from the vanity until she bumped into the wall. She sank to the floor and dropped her spinning head into her hands.

  She’d been shot.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Shouldn’t I wait for backup, sir?”

  If Flinn and Marco had been in the same place, Flinn might have knocked the stupid shit upside the head. Instead, Marco was outside a motel in Front Royal, Virginia, while Flinn tried to speed west on Interstate 66, only to be slowed to a maddening crawl by road construction.

  He never would have consented to let Marco go in alone to secure Samantha, but the dumb Italian had reported that Hunter had exited the motel room. That left Samantha alone and vulnerable—and much easier to secure without the unpredictable civilian around to fuck it up.

  Flinn slammed on the brakes, stopping inches from rear-ending the dipshit in the BMW in front of him. How he hated Virginia drivers.

  “With all due respect, sir, I think it would be safer to—”

  “You’re not being paid to think,” Flinn ground out between his teeth. “If you’re afraid to do your job, you don’t belong with N3. I’d be happy to start the paperwork for your transfer.”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir.” No frustration or animosity crept into Marco’s tone or expression. The perfect soldier.

  Flinn still planned to get the lunkhead kicked out of N3 as soon as the drama with Samantha was resolved. He didn’t understand what Andrea Leigh saw in the man. But he’d tolerated Marco from the beginning because he had to carefully pick his battles with the assistant director. No sense in burning capital over a useless subordinate.

  “Samantha might react on instinct. Do not underestimate her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do exactly as I say. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do this before Hunter returns.”

  The door in the other room opened, and Sa
m raised her head, blinking against the bright bathroom light. Her head felt muzzy and unclear. She must have fallen asleep or passed out for a few minutes.

  She assumed Mac was returning with food. For a moment, she wondered whether he was the one who’d shot her. He’d obviously lied about the hiking accident. But if he had shot her, why would he take care of her afterward?

  Unless he wanted something from her and hadn’t gotten it.

  Pain flared in her shoulder as she pushed to her feet. Somehow, she had to get away from him. Somehow, she had to find someone who knew her, who could help her remember. How she would do that, she had no idea.

  She had the flannel shirt back on and two buttons fastened, her hands shaking less now that she had somewhat of a plan, when the bathroom door opened. She whirled, expecting Mac Hunter, and prepared to deck him for walking in on her without at least knocking.

  Instead, a thickly muscled man with a black crewcut and a gun pointed at her stepped slowly across the threshold.

  She backed away until the backs of her knees bumped against the edge of the bathtub. She barely managed to maintain her balance.

  The man had dark, cold eyes and an expressionless face. “Come with me, and no one will get hurt, Samantha.”

  Her name on his lips startled her more than the gun in his hand. “You know me.”

  He didn’t respond, a coiled tension in his muscles. He was a snake preparing to strike. Where Mac had made her feel safe, even as he’d lied to her, this man oozed danger.

  She would have backed away even farther, but she was trapped. She braced, ready to fight if necessary. But, first, she wanted answers. “Who are you?”

  Mac ran the three blocks to the Jeep, his breath sending clouds of steam into the chilly fall air. When he’d returned to the motel room seconds ago, letting himself in quietly so as not to disturb Sam, he’d been shocked to discover she wasn’t alone. A man who had to be another of Flinn Ford’s henchmen had her cornered in the bathroom. Mac had dropped the bags of fast food and started running the three blocks to the SUV.