Secret Identity. Пола Грейвс

here in Thurlow Gap. There was a foreignness to him. As if he didn’t belong.

       Heading east on Dewberry Road as the clerk had directed, Rick met his own gaze in the rearview mirror. Brown eyes stared back at him under dark, quirked brows.

       There’s a foreignness to you, too, Rick Cooper.

       He’d been away from home entirely too long.

      AMANDA SCRABBLED THROUGH the closest box, cursing herself for falling into willful complacency. There was nowhere safe in the world, not even Thurlow Gap, Tennessee. No paradise was safe from murderous rage.

       She should have prepared better for this moment from the second she set foot in this town.

       Her former life came with baggage, but stupidly, she’d shoved that baggage into a bunch of boxes stacked haphazardly on metal shelves in her basement and told herself that she was safe enough with two dead bolts on the front door and a cheap alarm system she’d installed herself.

       She’d thought the danger was over in this paradise of mountains and forests and friendly neighbors. Three years of mind-numbing normalcy had lulled her into a false sense of peace now shattered by a phone number on a matchbox and a single word spoken by a man she’d once thought she might love.

       She should have had a disaster kit handy. Forget her past with the CIA; she lived within fifty miles of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, for God’s sake. She should already have been stockpiling food and water and batteries.

       At least she had her savings. She’d driven to Maryville an hour ago and withdrawn all but a hundred dollars from the savings account. She had twelve grand in cash to work with. She could buy a lot of peanut butter and bottled water with money like that.

       Buying a brand-new identity would be pricier, but at least she knew how to make that happen. She just had to make it to a big-enough city.

       By four forty-five, she’d packed two duffel bags full of survival provisions, including two of her three handguns—the Walther P99 and the SIG Sauer P238—and nine boxes of ammo. Upstairs, her Smith & Wesson M&P 9 mm was already loaded, with an extra round in the chamber.

       She’d also packed a gym bag full of underwear, jeans, T-shirts and a denim jacket. All that was left now was packing a box of nonperishable foods and she’d be ready to go.

       To where, she wasn’t sure.

       She looped the canvas straps of the duffel bags over her arms, grunting at the weight as she started up the stairs. As she hauled the bags through the door into the kitchen, a high-pitched beeping sound started echoing through the house. It took a second to realize what it was.

       Someone had tripped her perimeter alarm.

       She dropped the bags on the kitchen floor and raced down the short hallway to her bedroom. A red light on the alarm system’s control panel was blinking with each beep.

       She hit the code and stopped the alarm from sounding before a call went out to the local police. Whatever happened next would have to happen without putting anyone else in danger, including the local law. The good old boys who wore the uniform of Thurlow Gap’s police department wouldn’t be prepared for what they’d find here.

       She grabbed her Smith & Wesson from the nightstand. The heft of it in her hand gave her a renewed sense of control, easing the rapid-fire cadence of her pulse. She crept down the hall to the front of the house and moved to one of the windows looking out on the shaded front yard. Sliding the curtain aside an inch, she peered out at her driveway but saw nothing.

       Still, something had tripped the perimeter. Might have been an animal.

       Might not.

       She took a couple of deep breaths to brace herself and scooted through the doorway into the kitchen to check out the side window. But when she peeked through a space in the curtains, all she saw was movement to her right, a flash of charcoal disappearing around the side of her house, heading toward the front.

       She started toward the front door, then froze when three loud raps rang through the silent house.

       An assassin who knocked first?

       She moved away from the door, her footfalls whisper-soft against the hardwood floor. It might be a ruse to bring her to the doorway. Even peering through the fish-eye security lens was too dangerous; any large-caliber ammunition would penetrate the wood door. Should’ve replaced it with a steel-reinforced one, she thought.

       Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. Too late now.

       Knocks sounded on the door again, louder this time. She backpedaled, old instincts kicking in. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a box of ammunition for the Smith & Wesson. Tucking the box in her waistband, she headed out the back door, hoping her visitor would keep knocking long enough for her to reach the woods behind her house. She could set up a defensive position there, her familiarity with the terrain an advantage.

       She had barely reached the carport, however, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the flagstone walk toward the corner of the house. She raced around the back of her car and crouched behind the front fender.

       The footsteps continued a moment, then fell silent. Amanda’s pulse thundered in her ears. She tightened her grip on the 9 mm and held her breath, waiting for his next move.

       “Tara?”

       The voice, deep and familiar, sent a shiver down her spine.

       “Sorry, it’s Amanda now, isn’t it?” Rick Cooper asked.

       She remained silent.

       “I know you’re out here. I can feel you.”

       Her stomach knotted, inconvenient tears stinging her eyes.

       His footsteps made a scraping sound on the concrete as he walked slowly toward her car. “I saw Alexander Quinn not two hours ago. Have you spoken with him?”

       “Stop there,” she commanded, pleased at the steadiness of her voice, considering how hard her heart was pounding.

       He stopped.

       She dared a quick peek over the hood of her car. Rick stood about ten feet away. His coffee-brown eyes met hers, his lips parting.

       “You called me earlier,” she said.

       His mouth quirked. “Technically, you called first.”

       “Did Quinn tell you what to say?”

       “Not exactly. You know how damned inscrutable he is.”

       “But he did tell you to say ‘Sigurd’?”

       “He told me to remember the word. I chose to say it.”

       As Quinn had known he would. Manipulative bastard. “What have you been doing since MacLear went down?”

       “Working.”

       She sat back on her heels. “Doing what?”

       “Security-threat analysis. My brother has an agency.”

       “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

       “I have two of them. And three sisters. I didn’t just hatch out of a rock somewhere, you know.” Rick’s gaze focused on the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. “I really don’t like having a weapon pointed at me.”

       “Too bad.”

       He pressed his lips in a tight line. “Very well. What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?”

       “Nothing.” She motioned with the gun. “I need to leave. You’re standing in front of my car.”

       “What does ‘Sigurd’ mean?” he repeated.

       Before she could answer, something hit her windshield with a loud crack, spider-webbing the glass.

       “Get down!” she shouted to Rick.