Killshadow Road. Пола Грейвс

dry tone made her laugh, which she instantly regretted.

      “Ow,” she moaned, shifting to find a more comfortable position.

      “We’re close,” he promised her, and sure enough, within a few minutes he had turned the Land Rover off the main highway onto a one-lane road that twisted and turned deep into the woods.

      The one lane ended abruptly in the middle of nowhere, and for a second, McKenna thought they’d taken a wrong turn. But at the last second, Darcy steered the Land Rover onto a narrow dirt road the woods seemed to swallow whole.

      The road twisted and climbed until they appeared to be a long way from anything approaching civilization. Then the dirt road disappeared, and Darcy stopped the Land Rover and turned off the engine.

      McKenna gazed into the dense thicket of trees in front of them, her heart sinking. “Where’s the cabin?”

      “Through those trees.”

      She felt sick at the thought of trudging through the woods again so soon. “Don’t suppose we could just stay here? Bunk down in the back?”

      “I promise, it’s not far.” He unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the SUV, walked around the front and opened the passenger door. His dark eyes met hers steadily. “You can do this.”

      Gritting her teeth, she unbuckled her own seat belt and eased her legs toward the open door, trying to ignore the burning ache in her side. “If anyone ever says ‘It’s just a flesh wound’ to me again, I swear I’m going to belt them right in the mouth.”

      He held out his hands. She took them and let him help her to the ground. Her legs felt like noodles, but she willed herself to stay upright, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Darcy. If she couldn’t convince him she was on the mend, he would ignore her wishes and follow his own instincts to call in help.

      And if he did that, they both might end up dead.

      * * *

      MCKENNA HAD GONE from pasty white to a sickly gray color by the time the evergreen trees gave way with shocking suddenness to a narrow clearing that housed a small, rustic-looking cabin. Darcy slid his arm around her shoulders and felt her tremble under his touch.

      “Thank God,” she murmured, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder before she started to move again.

      “It’s hardly the Waldorf,” he warned as he helped her up the three steps to the cabin porch and settled her in one of the two cane-bottom rockers that sat to the right of the door.

      “Whatever.”

      He wasn’t sure she’d be so blasé about the cabin’s primitive comforts. The owner, Hunter Bragg, didn’t live there full-time, but it was apparently a favorite getaway for him and his new fiancée, if office scuttlebutt was anything to go by.

      There was no easily discovered spare key to be had, Darcy was certain. The Gates trained their agents not to be careless.

      But the agency also taught their agents to be skilled and resourceful. Darcy pulled a lock-pick kit from his backpack and made quick work of the dead bolt on the front door.

      “That is so illegal,” McKenna murmured, sounding impressed.

      He shot her a quick smile. “I am not the man you knew in Kaziristan.”

      “I’m beginning to see that.” She pushed herself up from the rocker, wobbling a little when she gained her feet.

      He caught her elbow in his firm grasp and led her into the dark cabin.

      The power was running, though all the lights and appliances had been turned off, leaving the cabin’s interior shadowed in the early-morning gloom. Darcy flicked the light switch on, and the overhead lamps revealed a small, cold front room furnished with an old but sturdy-looking sofa, what looked like an old Army footlocker doubling as a coffee table, and a couple of mismatched armchairs that sat across from the sofa to create a shabby but cozy conversation area.

      “Are you cold?” he asked, nodding toward the fireplace.

      She followed his gaze, one eyebrow arching as she saw that, instead of logs, the width of the hearth was filled with a large electric space heater. “Well. That’s different.”

      “Apparently the point of this backwoods haven is maximum seclusion and secrecy. I suppose smoke rising from the chimney would negate that effect.” He took her arm and eased her over to the sofa. “Sit. I’ll retrieve the rest of the supplies from the Land Rover.”

      By the time he returned with the two large duffel bags he and McKenna had stuffed full of supplies they might need, McKenna had curled up into a miserable-looking knot on the sofa.

      “You look ill,” he commented as he set the duffels on the floor.

      “You’re such a sweet talker, Darcy. I bet all the ladies love you.”

      He ignored her soft gibe and crossed to her side, placing the back of his hand against her cheek. She was definitely warmer than she’d been in the car. And she’d been quite warm then.

      “I need to take a look at your wounds.”

      She managed a grimace of a smile. “Is that a proposition?”

      “It’s a statement of fact. You appear to be feverish. If your wounds are infected, we need to alter our plan.”

      “We had a plan?” she asked through gritted teeth as she plucked the hem of his T-shirt away from her side.

      Blood had oozed through the gauze bandage, he saw, though not a lot. He eased the bandage away from her torn skin and took in the two holes in her flesh. The skin around them was reddened and warm to the touch. “I’m afraid infection may be setting in.”

      “Clean it again,” she said. “Just give me a bullet to bite first.”

      “You need antibiotics. We need to get you to a physician.”

      “Can’t do that,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “Any other ideas?”

      One, but he didn’t particularly like it. “I could break into the free clinic in Bitterwood and steal some antibiotics.”

      She stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. “You are definitely not the man I knew in Kaziristan.”

      He wasn’t. He hadn’t been for a long time.

      “Is there an option between those two extremes?” she asked when he said nothing else.

      He nodded. “I can call on someone I trust for help.”

      * * *

      “HE HASN’T MADE contact again, has he?”

      Alexander Quinn looked up from his laptop computer and found Olivia Sharp standing in the doorway of his office, her shoulder leaning against the door frame. Her bare, shapely legs seemed to rise for miles before disappearing beneath the charcoal pencil skirt of her lightweight summer suit. She was a tall woman who didn’t need to wear heels to be imposing, but today’s footwear sported four-inch heels and open toes that displayed the impertinent bright green of her toenail polish.

      “He has not,” he answered her question. “Have you anything new to report?”

      She shook her head as she entered the office and closed the door. “Anson Daughtry has taken advantage of his administrative leave to drive down to Atlanta for something called The Mixed Magic Tour. Five alt-punk bands on one stage, lots of alcohol and girls with rainbow-colored hair.” She shrugged. “Are you sure he’s thirty-two?”

      Quinn tamped down a smile. “Almost thirty-three.”

      “Either he’s not concerned about the internal investigation or he’s trying very hard to appear unconcerned.” Olivia shot Quinn a shrewd look. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”

      Quinn concurred. “What about the