hadn’t found it yet. If he was in her shoes she’d be heading out of the country as soon as possible.
For that she’d need documents, even if they were fake. If they were here, then she’d be coming back for them. She’d have known all about him long before last night, known what he was capable of and that he wouldn’t give up the hunt.
Too much was at stake. So where the hell was she?
There’d been no sign of her at any hospital within a hundred miles of here. He had sources on the lookout for her at airports, bus stations, train stations, rental car companies, hotels. She apparently didn’t have a handler or anyone to turn to in whatever agency had hired her.
She also couldn’t have fucking disappeared into thin air. He figured she must have stolen a car, or had one already bought and waiting for her prior to last night.
After doing one more thorough look around and finding nothing, he left and headed for the SUV he’d parked in the underground garage. Anger pulsed through him as he drove back to his condo.
Unless one of his people got an alert on her—and he wasn’t convinced that would happen considering her level of training—then her apartment was his only chance of finding her at the moment. He’d have to hope he was right, that she’d come back to get whatever she’d left behind. For now, he’d keep the building under constant surveillance.
All he needed was one strong lead. Once he found her, he’d take out his anger and humiliation on her body, pry out of her who in the CIA had hired her so he could feed that to the Big Boss and save his own skin.
Then he’d end her.
****
It sounded like he had a damn mini chainsaw going at the foot of his bed.
Wyatt expelled an exasperated sigh and rolled to his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom in the cabin. Grits might be little, but right now he sounded like an eighty-year-old man suffering from severe sleep apnea.
He glanced down at the dog, currently sprawled out on top of the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made. She’d hate to see it being covered in dog hair.
Grits let out another teeth-rattling snorfle, actually stopped breathing for a second or two before snorting and still didn’t wake himself up.
Wyatt glared at him and nudged him with his foot. “Hey, mutton-head.”
Grits twitched but kept on sawing logs. With a badly rusted chainsaw.
“Hey,” he repeated, louder, his nudge less gentle this time. “Wake up.”
The dog stopped snoring and lay there, tail wagging sleepily, thumping gently against the quilt.
“Dude, seriously, you’re killing me. I’m the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met and this cannot go on.” He’d been that way since his first combat deployment. Every tiny movement or sound woke him up and put him on alert. Pure survival instinct back then. Now it was habit. The struggle was real.
Wyatt reached for the dog, who lowered his head and wagged just the end of his tail, giving him a pitiful look in a clear plea to be allowed to stay on the bed. Refusing to be sucked in just because of how cute the dog was, he picked him up and set him on the floor.
“You go sleep in your own bed.” When Piper had dumped the little guy on his doorstep, Wyatt had thought housetraining him would be the toughest part, but it turned out the real issue was not getting sucked into the whole big brown-eyed routine Grits pulled.
Grits gazed at him for a long moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind, then stood up on his hind legs. He put his front paws on the edge of the bed, his tail wagging madly, head cocked, ears perked. Pretty please, can I stay? I’ll be a good boy.
“No. Bed.” Wyatt pointed to the cushy dog bed he’d bought the day after Piper had brought Grits over. All dogs deserved a comfy bed. Spending the money on a memory foam mattress for Grits didn’t mean Wyatt planned on keeping him.
Grits’s ears flopped in disappointment. He dropped his front paws to the
For that she’d need documents, even if they were fake. If they were here, then she’d be coming back for them. She’d have known all about him long before last night, known what he was capable of and that he wouldn’t give up the hunt.
Too much was at stake. So where the hell was she?
There’d been no sign of her at any hospital within a hundred miles of here. He had sources on the lookout for her at airports, bus stations, train stations, rental car companies, hotels. She apparently didn’t have a handler or anyone to turn to in whatever agency had hired her.
She also couldn’t have fucking disappeared into thin air. He figured she must have stolen a car, or had one already bought and waiting for her prior to last night.
After doing one more thorough look around and finding nothing, he left and headed for the SUV he’d parked in the underground garage. Anger pulsed through him as he drove back to his condo.
Unless one of his people got an alert on her—and he wasn’t convinced that would happen considering her level of training—then her apartment was his only chance of finding her at the moment. He’d have to hope he was right, that she’d come back to get whatever she’d left behind. For now, he’d keep the building under constant surveillance.
All he needed was one strong lead. Once he found her, he’d take out his anger and humiliation on her body, pry out of her who in the CIA had hired her so he could feed that to the Big Boss and save his own skin.
Then he’d end her.
****
It sounded like he had a damn mini chainsaw going at the foot of his bed.
Wyatt expelled an exasperated sigh and rolled to his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom in the cabin. Grits might be little, but right now he sounded like an eighty-year-old man suffering from severe sleep apnea.
He glanced down at the dog, currently sprawled out on top of the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made. She’d hate to see it being covered in dog hair.
Grits let out another teeth-rattling snorfle, actually stopped breathing for a second or two before snorting and still didn’t wake himself up.
Wyatt glared at him and nudged him with his foot. “Hey, mutton-head.”
Grits twitched but kept on sawing logs. With a badly rusted chainsaw.
“Hey,” he repeated, louder, his nudge less gentle this time. “Wake up.”
The dog stopped snoring and lay there, tail wagging sleepily, thumping gently against the quilt.
“Dude, seriously, you’re killing me. I’m the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met and this cannot go on.” He’d been that way since his first combat deployment. Every tiny movement or sound woke him up and put him on alert. Pure survival instinct back then. Now it was habit. The struggle was real.
Wyatt reached for the dog, who lowered his head and wagged just the end of his tail, giving him a pitiful look in a clear plea to be allowed to stay on the bed. Refusing to be sucked in just because of how cute the dog was, he picked him up and set him on the floor.
“You go sleep in your own bed.” When Piper had dumped the little guy on his doorstep, Wyatt had thought housetraining him would be the toughest part, but it turned out the real issue was not getting sucked into the whole big brown-eyed routine Grits pulled.
Grits gazed at him for a long moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind, then stood up on his hind legs. He put his front paws on the edge of the bed, his tail wagging madly, head cocked, ears perked. Pretty please, can I stay? I’ll be a good boy.
“No. Bed.” Wyatt pointed to the cushy dog bed he’d bought the day after Piper had brought Grits over. All dogs deserved a comfy bed. Spending the money on a memory foam mattress for Grits didn’t mean Wyatt planned on keeping him.
Grits’s ears flopped in disappointment. He dropped his front paws to the
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