Inherited Threat. Jane M. Choate

make it easier to spot a tail.

      “You’re pretty cool for having been chased by thugs,” he said.

      “Getting upset isn’t going to change things. Besides, it uses energy I may need on down the road.”

      She was right about that. They weren’t out of the woods yet, and despite her calm words, he knew she was wound tightly. He saw it in the compressed lips and tightly clenched hands. She was likely running on fumes. When they gave out...

      He shook his head at the probable outcome. Even a Ranger could go only so far without refueling. Adrenaline layered upon danger would have her crashing in an hour or so. He needed to get her somewhere safe, somewhere she could rest.

      He glanced at her, noted the grayness of her skin that spoke of exhaustion. Even with that and the shadows beneath her eyes, energy vibrated from her. “You don’t say much.”

      “I figured you as the type who didn’t appreciate idle talk.”

      “You figured right.”

      She lifted a brow. “Then what’s the problem?”

      “No problem. Just wondering what you did to make those yahoos so mad.”

      “Let’s just say they woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

      While he appreciated a woman who didn’t chatter all the time, he was looking for answers. “What do you know about the Collective?”

      “Not as much as I’d like. I know Ronnie Winston’s been in federal lockup for the last year.”

      “You came prepared,” he noted.

      “When someone’s killed my mother and chasing me, I tend to take it personally.”

      “How’d your mother get involved with the Collective?”

      Laurel didn’t answer and, instead, asked a question of her own. “Jake Rabb and Shelley Judd, they’re brother and sister, right?”

      He gave her credit for having done her homework on S&J. “Right. Shelley and Jake are good people. If anybody can help you, they can.”

      “And you?”

      “And me.” When she yawned widely, he said, “Why don’t you close your eyes for a while?”

      “Why don’t I?” She made a half turn to the back seat. “Sammy, time for rest.”

      Mace watched the exchange in the rearview mirror. Sammy relaxed his vigilant posture and stretched out on the seat, taking up the full length of it. A soft expression stole over Laurel’s face as she gazed at the dog.

      “He’s special to you.”

      “Sammy’s been through a lot and seen me through more. He’s the best. There were some who said he ought to be put down after he lost his leg.”

      “Guess that didn’t sit well with you.”

      Her partially closed eyes snapped open. Mace studied her. Weariness shrouded her, the lines fanning from the corners of her eyes deep, her smile there by an effort of will and little else.

      “You guessed right. Sammy deserved better than that. He saved a lot of lives. In my book, that makes him a hero.”

      “In mine, too,” Mace said, but her eyelids had drifted shut once more. He glanced over his shoulder at Sammy. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll keep her safe.”

      If Mace hadn’t known better, he’d have said that Sammy nodded his assent.

      Mace maneuvered through traffic and considered S&J’s newest client. Beautiful. Intelligent. Courageous. A woman who was being hunted.

      Laurel Landry was an intriguing woman, but she was a client and, as such, hands-off, even if he was attracted to her.

      While in Jalal-Abad, he’d met an American woman working as a schoolteacher. Teachers were often in danger in Afghanistan and he’d admired her dedication to her students. Attraction had bloomed between them and, for the first time in his life, he’d found himself falling in love. It was a heady sensation, and he savored it.

      He’d thought she returned his feelings, that is until he learned that teaching was a cover for her CIA job. Though the Army and the CIA occasionally worked together, their goals were often opposed. Any feelings for her had died when he discovered that she was using their relationship to advance her own agenda.

      He’d learned his lesson and learned it well. He had no time for women now. Everything he had, everything he was, he gave to the job.

      The job came first. Always.

       THREE

      Laurel awoke with a start, her thinking fuzzy as she tried to recall where she was. A glance at her watch had her groaning. She’d slept two hours.

      Sammy! A shot of fear cleared her mind, and she started to turn around in the seat when Mace’s voice stopped her.

      “He’s fine. He’s been snoring.” A pause. “Same as you.”

      Her denial was instinctive. “I don’t snore.”

      Mace flashed a grin. “Have it your way.”

      “I never sleep in the middle of the day.” She needed to make that clear.

      “You’ve probably never had members of the Collective on your tail either.”

      “There is that.” She stretched. “I didn’t realize how tired I was until...”

      “Until now. I get it. Adrenaline got you so far, then you crashed. It happens.”

      “Thanks.”

      “For what?”

      “For not making a big deal of it.”

      Another flash of that grin. “You’re the one doing that.”

      He was right. There was no need to apologize for her body’s need for rest. “Still, thanks.”

      He waved that off. “We need to stop and gas up.”

      Her stomach rumbled. “I could go for some food.”

      “You got it.” He jerked the steering wheel to the right and exited the freeway.

      It was then she noticed the men following them. “Got company,” she said.

      Mace didn’t take his eyes from the road. “Let’s see how good you really are with that Sig.”

      She drew herself up as far as possible in the limited confines of the truck. “I can shoot the wings from a gnat and send them flying.”

      “Well, then, is your arm broken?”

      Laurel grabbed her Sig, the feel of it as familiar as her own hand.

      She turned in her seat, rolled down the window. There was still the possibility that the driver wasn’t part of the Collective, just an innocent man who happened to be going the same direction they were, so she held her fire.

      A bullet found its way into the upholstery, putting to rest any doubts. Firing from a moving vehicle took precision and timing. Television shows and movies made it look ridiculously easy. The truth was that only one in twenty marksmen could take out a tire in such circumstances.

      Though she was a crack shot, she didn’t go for a tire but the engine. A bigger target increased the success rate exponentially, and a bullet hitting the engine could start a nice little fire, enough to keep the tangos busy for a time. She lined up her target and fired.

      The ping of metal against metal told her she’d hit her mark. Seconds later, flames burst from the engine. “Nailed it.”

      “Not