Chapter 4

 

Jaime Castle. Shit.

He’d promised the man in the suit he’d kill the target on sight. One life for three. When he’d asked why, he’d been told he didn’t need to know. He’d never anticipated Jaime Castle would be a woman. Christ. Repeatedly they’d reminded him that once the team put him into position, his job was to make the kill and the team would handle any clean up.

This couldn’t really be his target, and yet… the team had shooed him out of the last truck stop before he was done with his meal. Her tire had gone flat almost on top of him. Those two factors alone would be implausible if he hadn’t watched a horror show of circumstantial evidence end in a murder conviction only to be followed by the most miserable break out dilemma in history.

Suddenly, Scott wished—for both of them—that he was a serial killer. It would make saving his buddies and himself a whole lot easier. Although, if he’d been a smart serial killer, he wouldn’t have targeted this particular woman. She had ‘capable’ stamped all over her posture, and the long cases in the trunk and back seat were unmistakably firearms. He’d seen similar cases on an almost daily basis in Army drab green during his service.

When he’d put the tire into her trunk, he’d briefly wondered if he’d fallen into another trap. Maybe he’d been too quick to decide she was just a random stranger driving in the right direction. She was pretty with a vibrant energy. A part of his mind had been imagining asking her out, if circumstances were different.

Why did anyone want her dead? Maybe she was the serial killer.

Her headlights bounced off a road sign and he saw they were only thirty miles or so out of Clover City. He’d never heard of it until she mentioned it. He didn’t recall seeing it labeled on the map he’d studied at a rest stop. The snow was coming down harder and she’d had to slow even more for the conditions.

A sense of trouble pressed in on him from all sides. The team, through resources he didn’t understand, was waiting for him to strike, to fulfill his part of this sickening bargain. He couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t kill her regardless of the consequences. He didn’t know her, but he wasn’t going to murder someone nice enough to give a stranger a lift. “You should let me out.”

She kept her eyes on the road. “Here? No. You can get out in Clover City.”

The instincts he’d honed through three tours overseas were screaming that would be too late. “Now, Jaime. Seriously.” He put his hand on the door latch, ready to jump and roll if necessary. The team was close.

“Are you feeling sick?” She slowed at the signs posting a warning about the curve ahead. “I can pull over in a minute.”

“Sick. Yeah.” He pressed a hand to his stomach. Once he was out, he would run and draw the team away with him. Eventually she’d write him off as an oddball and go on without him. He reached for the door, ready to bolt the minute she pulled over.

But she didn’t slow down after the curve and he heard the ‘clunk’ of the child safety locks.

“Tell me why you suddenly need to get out of this car and don’t lie this time.”

He wasn’t lying. Sick would be the first symptom he displayed if she got killed because he’d unwittingly helped his target. “Look, I’m not hitchhiking north for fun.”

“Got that figured out all on my own,” she said. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“It’s really better if you don’t know.” Hell he didn’t understand any of it himself. Without facts to back it up, he wasn’t going to tell her someone had sent him to kill her.

“You’re full of crap.”

He understood why she thought so. He heard a new noise over the sound of her car’s engine laboring on the rise, the wipers on the window, and the tires pushing through the gathering snow.

Her head shifted as her gaze moved first to the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors in turn. She’d heard it too. “Is that a motorcycle?” she asked, echoing his thoughts.

“Sounds like it.” Scott swiveled around in his seat, but they were surrounded by darkness, alone on the road. His shadow team must have caught up and were running fast without headlights. “Can you speed up at all?” he asked. He really didn’t want to wind up in another glossy black SUV with silent goons armed with needles. The car fishtailed as she goosed the engine. Of course, sliding off the road and getting stuck in a ditch in this snowstorm wasn’t really a better option.

The car lurched as the motorcycle jammed the rear bumper. What were these guys thinking?

She muttered an oath. “Can you shoot?” she asked, her attention divided between the rearview mirror and the roadway in front of them.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She tipped her head a little. “There’s a loaded revolver in the soft case behind my seat.”

Scott found the case and brought it to his lap.

“What the hell is he trying to do?” Jaime swore, wincing when a bright light suddenly flared through the rear window. “This asshat is insane.”

Insane and terminally persistent. “I only hear one motorcycle,” he said, focused on the priority of getting her to Clover City in one piece. He would not let Jaime pay for his troubles and misguided agreement to a terrible scheme.

“Me too,” she agreed after a moment. “Go around!” she shouted.

“He chose the perfect spot, deserted and bad weather,” Scott noted.

“True,” she said. “There’s another curve ahead. I can use that to swing the car around and give you a shot.”

He supposed he’d been in worse situations, but never without the capable backup of his team. “You can do that?”

“Just focus on the shot,” she said, a determined snarl curling through her voice.

He powered down the window, knowing he’d be better off aiming on the sounds, instead of a headlight the rider could turn off in the face of a threat. As it had so often on missions overseas, his heartrate seemed to settle. In a moment of crisis, every cell in his body relaxed, leaning on the foundations of basics, training, and muscle memory.

Cold air filled the car and snow blew in with it, the flakes melting against his cheeks. He blinked the snow from his eyelashes, listening to Jaime’s countdown as she rounded the curve.

The back end of the car swung out wide and then she was perpendicular to the road. Scott listened and fired in the direction of the motorcycle, three shots at a time, aiming low and letting the kick of the gun lift his shots.

The single headlight swung wide and away and then went out. The sounds from the motorcycle changed as the driver let off the throttle and metal screeched against wet, icy pavement. Jaime gave him no time to check the results. She swung the car around and stomped on the accelerator, racing for Clover City.

“What now?” she asked as he powered up the window.

“No idea.” He dusted the snow from his shirt and jeans before it melted. He should have insisted on stopping long enough to see if he’d hit anything. “I’m being followed.” Stating the obvious didn’t make it easier to sort out. If they knew his location, why not pick him up before he got into her car?

“Why?”

So many reasons. He couldn’t decide how to answer. The Army was surely searching for Scott Blackwell, escaped convict, yet she hadn’t flinched at his first name when he gave it. She’d had a good look at him and not shown any fear or worry. Did that mean the team on his tail had suppressed the escape or staged that accident as something else? How the hell could he tell her he’d been put in her path to kill her on the orders of a man with no name, only undeniable power?

“Why?” she repeated.

“People believe I committed a crime and ran from the consequences.”

“You are clearly running,” she pointed out.

“Not by choice.” He’d been so sure the truth would come out during the court martial, but everything had worked against them from the moment they’d returned to the FOB.

“Did you commit the crime?” she asked.

“No.” Why did he want to tell her the whole, sordid story? “Drop me at the edge of town,” he said, as lights dotted the horizon just ahead. “That’s really better for you.” Unless that gave the team an opening to kill her since he hadn’t. Damn it, what the hell was the best move here?

“No,” she stated.

Her refusal baffled him. “Yes,” he insisted. “It’s the safest option for you.”

“No,” she repeated. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my days wondering how long it took you to die of exposure.”

“That’s stupid. You don’t even know me.”

“All the same, I’m not dropping you off in this weather.”

He could only stare at her. “Miss—”

“Jaime,” she corrected. “You don’t know me either, but I’ll give you a tip right now, arguing with me is useless once I’ve made up my mind.”

“Jaime,” he tried again only to have her cut him off once more.

“Whatever you say next shouldn’t even resemble a suggestion for me to dump you on the side of the road.” She tapped her chest. “Stubborn beyond reform.”

“Is it really dumping me when I’m volunteering to get out?” He was about to beg.

She shot him an exasperated look that managed to be a major turn on. Whoa. Not the time or place or even the right woman for that kind of reaction. Talk about a misplaced outlet for adrenaline.

“You helped me with that tire and now you clearly need help,” she said as if life was that simple. “I owe you.”

“You really don’t,” he muttered. “You gave me a shot, some breathing room. Really, that’s good enough.” If he ran now, maybe he could make it for longer than an hour this time. He looked over, wondering if testing him or killing her was more important to the man in the gray suit.

“Not letting you go.”

“Jaime.” Stubborn seemed to be the tip of the iceberg with this woman. Fine. “How do you propose to help me if they come back?”

“I’m thinking.”

He shook his head as she slowed down to the posted Clover City speed limit. She had no idea what she was in for and he didn’t have enough information to illuminate either of them. He had to convince her he could make it on his own.

“I appreciate the gesture,” he said, as she parked behind an auto shop.

She faced him, the neon of the sign overhead painting her dark hair in wild colors. “Appreciate this. You’ll help me haul my gear over to the motel at the end of the block. We’ll get a room, have a drink, and make a plan to get out of here tomorrow.”

He had to say it. “Are you high?”

“No. I was raised to do the right thing. As I suspect you were. Now let’s get moving just in case that jerk on the motorcycle managed to peel his mangled ride off the pavement.”

Scott knew when he was beaten. His life had gone off the rails when he’d been accused of murder. He’d help her haul the gear to the motel and have that drink, but only to ward off the chill. Once he told her enough of the truth, she’d come to her senses and let him walk away.

*

Jaime had been honing her instincts about people since she was a kid. She’d learned early, with transient workers moving through the rural Montana area where she’d grown up. Her martial arts training had emphasized those lessons. To win, it was vital to read an opponent quickly and adjust accordingly. The result was a confidence and trust in her intuition. Scott was in trouble, but he wasn’t a direct threat to her. Whoever had chased him was a problem, but that only made her more determined to help him.

She’d always been a sucker for an underdog. And this underdog was sexy as hell to go along with his skills with both firearms and lug wrench. Military all the way—right down to the decisive nature and wide protective streak. He didn’t act like a veteran who’d lost his way and couldn’t adjust to being a stateside civilian again. No, she had him pegged as a man with bigger problems even before the idiot on the motorcycle attacked her car and he’d admitted he was wanted for a crime he didn’t commit.

They stacked her luggage and gun cases in the space between the bed and the bathroom wall. It only made it more obvious that he carried nothing beyond the clothing on his back. He needed a coat at the very least if he was going to stay in the area. She decided they could take care of that in the morning while they waited for the shop to put on the new tires.

She unwrapped two of the plastic cups stacked by the sink. Pulling a flask out of her toiletry case, she poured a measure of whiskey into each plastic cup, handing him one. “To your health.” She raised her cup.

A corner of his mouth lifted as he tapped his cup to hers. “Cheers.”

She watched him knock back the shot in a quick gulp. “Will you talk about it?”

“Better if I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry you were, ah, caught in the middle.”

She waited. He clearly wanted to say more. “We survived,” she said when he didn’t elaborate. She poured him a second drink. “If you didn’t commit the crime, why run?”

He cocked an eyebrow, refusing to answer, swirling the liquor in his cup.

“So you did something else wrong?” she pressed.

His unfocused gaze landed on the floor between them. “Aren’t prisons full of criminals claiming they’ve been framed?”

“I’ve heard that.” She studied him. “In your case I’d believe it.”

“Why?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“That’s a lot to risk your life on, sharing a drink with a stranger in motel room.” His attention bounced to the door and back to her. “Are you always this naïve?”

“If you wanted to hurt me you’ve had plenty of time to do it. You haven’t even tried to intimidate me.” She toed off her shoes and sat back on the bed, tucking one foot under her opposite thigh. He watched every movement. “I was raised to be compassionate,” she began, only to be interrupted by a noise outside the door. They both flinched.

“Stay back,” he murmured, stepping in front of her.

She snorted, rolling to her feet. “Yeah, you’re a real baddie,” she muttered at his shoulder.

He didn’t spare her so much as a glance as he eased to the window to peer through the narrow break in the curtain.

“See anything?” she whispered.

“No,” he mouthed in near silence, his closed fist down near his hip moved like a head shake.

Sign language for ‘no’. This guy kept getting more interesting. Still, another scrape or footfall sounded before a voice carried through the thin door. “You’re clear for tonight. Rest easy, Blackwell.”

Blackwell? Was that his last name?

She heard faint footsteps moving away from their door. After a long minute of continued silence, Jaime poked him in the shoulder. “You said no one was there.”

His eyebrows beetled over his dark brown eyes. “No one was.”

“Those boots sounded pretty substantial for a ghost.”

“Uh-huh.” Scott’s fingers eased away from the edge of the curtain. “I’m leaving.”

She couldn’t let him do that, though she didn’t really want to explore why she wanted him to stay. He made her feel safe, which was probably the lingering adrenaline playing with her head. “When was the last time you slept in a bed?” she asked, though the answer was irrelevant.

“You don’t even care that whoever that was knew my name?”

“Your name is Scott Blackwell?” Watching him, she caught the flinch. He opened his mouth only to shut it again. She folded her arms over her chest. “You have a dry, warm place to rest for tonight. Use it.”

“But…” He flung a hand to the door, his voice trailing off.

“Whoever it was outside gave you the same advice. I suggest you accept that you’re outvoted.” She turned for the bathroom. “I’ll be out in five minutes.” She turned, catching him looking at the door. “I have friends and family all over this town, if you run, when we find you we’ll all be aggravated and grumpy that you dragged us out in this weather.”

He rolled his eyes. “Now I’m your prisoner?”

She found his emphasis curious. “No. Here’s how I see it. You’ll leave. I’ll make a few calls, explain you’re a friend in a tough spot, upset enough that you wandered off without a coat. You’ll be found in a hurry and you’ll end up thawing out in a hospital room. No one ever gets any sleep in a hospital.”

He muttered something she was surely better off not hearing and helped himself to another drink.

Confident he’d stay put she took a fast, hot shower and changed into warm fleece pants and a thermal shirt before returning to the room. Her heart kicked with relief that he was still there. “Shower’s free,” she said.

Perched at the end of the bed nearest the door, he stared at the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “Great.” He didn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Is it clothing?” Despite the weather, she had a friend or two who would bring something over for him, no questions asked. “I don’t have anything in your size, but I can call in a favor.” He was fit and taller than her, though he wasn’t bulky. His poise and confidence made her think of him as much bigger. Still, he was broad enough through the shoulders that not even her coat would come close to fitting him.

“It’s the whole damn mess,” he said. He kicked at a duffle bag she hadn’t noticed. “Someone dropped this off while you were in the shower.”

Jaime strode to the door. “You mean the person who was out there earlier?”

He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Damned if I know. There was another knock and when I opened the door, the bag was there,” he said.

“Well, open it,” she suggested.

“I did.” He handed her a plain white envelope, his name printed by hand in block capital lettering on the outside. “I need a drink.”

That bad, huh? “Help yourself.” She handed him the flask and took the envelope in exchange. Whoever had addressed the envelope had also written the note inside:

 

“Dear Mr. Blackwell,

We know you’re innocent. Though it isn’t safe to return to your previous life and career, we can give you distance from those hunting you.

Please take the enclosed capsule. It should disable the technology being used to track you. We will be in touch in the morning.”

 

Jaime peered into the envelope and felt around with her fingers. “You took whatever was in here?”

He nodded.

“It could have been poison.”

“Still tickin’. I feel fine,” he said with a what’s-there-to-lose shrug. “Over the last few days it was obvious there was a team tracking me somehow.”

“Who? Why?”

“I don’t know who.” He bent and pulled cargo pants, a T-shirt, and a long-sleeved pullover out of the bag. “Why is up for debate too. Guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

He tugged off his boots and stripped out of his flannel shirt and the tee underneath.

Her breath backed up in her lungs at the view of his lean torso and washboard abs. Distinctive tattoos only added to the overall appeal, rippling as he moved. As he passed by she noticed the scarring high on his shoulder and down across the flat of his shoulder blade. Burns and shrapnel she guessed, managing not to ask. Lower still, his skin was a mosaic of healing bruises. Someone had recently used him for a punching bag.

The bathroom door closed and a few minutes later the shower taps came on. Not feeling the least bit guilty, she searched through the bag he’d been given. She found more clothes, including silk underwear and a fleece-lined reversible all-weather coat and gloves.

Someone expected him to stay in a cold climate. Apparently someone with good intentions. She wasn’t sure what to think of any of it. While he cleaned up, she used her cell phone to search his name, but nothing came up. Or rather, none of the results matched the Scott Blackwell showering on the other side of the closed bathroom door.

The lack of results online didn’t deter her. She hadn’t changed her mind about him being a good guy caught in a world of trouble. She just wished she knew how best to help him. She supposed she wouldn’t have more insight until his guardian angels returned in the morning.