him.
Who is Tess hiding from???
she'd written.
And why are you bringing her some of Jimmy's T-shirts and underwear?
Decker looked up at her, and he saw hope mixed with the disbelief on her pretty face.
“I'm not,” he said, answering her second question half-honestly. But he knew, try as he might to hide it, that she could see the truth in his eyes—that she was right, and that Nash was still alive.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my
God …
”
Ah, hell. Really?
Out of an entire team of highly skilled, super-elite operatives, it was Tracy, their allegedly ditzy receptionist, who'd figured it out?
As Decker watched, she tamped down her emotional response, blinked back her tears, and pushed the door open even wider. “Come inside,” she said, in a voice that didn't so much as waver. It was a command, not an invitation. “And help me look for that DVD.”
Decker folded all three notes and, hefting the duffel bag and shaking his head, went back into Tess and Nash's apartment, where Tracy closed the door, tightly, behind them both.
C HAPTER
T HREE
S TILL T UESDAY
S omeone was following him. Years of working for the CIA had definitely made Dave paranoid, but there was no doubt about it.
Someone
was
following him.
At this late hour of the night, the top floor of the vast hospital parking garage was deserted—except for Dave and the person who was following him—and he was glad he'd suggested Sophia wait in the lobby. Seeing her father again had been hard enough—no need to add to the misery by having to schlep to the car through the relentlessly chilly New England rain.
Still, the father-daughter reunion had gone well. Sophia had been gracious in her acceptance of the old man's tearful apologies. She'd even gone so far as to grant him forgiveness, of sorts. And her father had actually started breathing more easily. Sophia had seemed to feel some relief, too and—
Dave heard the footsteps again and glanced over his shoulder, half hoping it was Sophia's Aunt Maureen, but knowing, just from the sound of the footfalls, that it was someone much bigger than she was.
And it was, indeed, someone much bigger—than Dave even.
Male, Caucasian, mid-thirties, 250 pounds, about six-six. Gang tatts— teardrops on his face, but faded—as well as inked letters on both of his hands, between his knuckles and the first joints of his fingers. Dave wasn't close enough to read what they spelled out.
He kept moving—his rental car was just ahead in the far corner of the lot, alone save for a dark blue pickup truck right next to it. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone as he glanced back at the big man again.
Shaved head, pale eyes—it was hard to tell their color in the low-wattage fluorescent streetlights—pierced eyebrow and nose, mangina beneath his lower lip.
Leather jacket slick with rain, jeans, biker boots.
He hadn't increased his pace at Dave's double-take, but he also hadn't angled off toward the only other cluster of cars. He just kept moving, parallel to Dave now—closer to the two vehicles. It was entirely possible that the blue truck was his, and that coincidence had brought them into the parking garage at this exact same moment in time.
Judging a man from his appearance was neither nice nor PC, but before Dave could comment on the weather
—hell of a night for a trip to the hospital,
at which point the big man would proudly announce that his wife had just had a baby girl, their first child—he heard the unmistakable metal swish of a switchblade knife being unsheathed.
He looked again, and sure enough, the dim light glinted off a nasty-looking blade held with a distinctly non-amateurish grip in the behemoth's extra-large hand.
Running for his car was not an option— knife-guy was planted neatly between it and Dave.
So Dave stopped, too. He stood there, in the rain, and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?” as he took out his cell phone and
Who is Tess hiding from???
she'd written.
And why are you bringing her some of Jimmy's T-shirts and underwear?
Decker looked up at her, and he saw hope mixed with the disbelief on her pretty face.
“I'm not,” he said, answering her second question half-honestly. But he knew, try as he might to hide it, that she could see the truth in his eyes—that she was right, and that Nash was still alive.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my
God …
”
Ah, hell. Really?
Out of an entire team of highly skilled, super-elite operatives, it was Tracy, their allegedly ditzy receptionist, who'd figured it out?
As Decker watched, she tamped down her emotional response, blinked back her tears, and pushed the door open even wider. “Come inside,” she said, in a voice that didn't so much as waver. It was a command, not an invitation. “And help me look for that DVD.”
Decker folded all three notes and, hefting the duffel bag and shaking his head, went back into Tess and Nash's apartment, where Tracy closed the door, tightly, behind them both.
C HAPTER
T HREE
S TILL T UESDAY
S omeone was following him. Years of working for the CIA had definitely made Dave paranoid, but there was no doubt about it.
Someone
was
following him.
At this late hour of the night, the top floor of the vast hospital parking garage was deserted—except for Dave and the person who was following him—and he was glad he'd suggested Sophia wait in the lobby. Seeing her father again had been hard enough—no need to add to the misery by having to schlep to the car through the relentlessly chilly New England rain.
Still, the father-daughter reunion had gone well. Sophia had been gracious in her acceptance of the old man's tearful apologies. She'd even gone so far as to grant him forgiveness, of sorts. And her father had actually started breathing more easily. Sophia had seemed to feel some relief, too and—
Dave heard the footsteps again and glanced over his shoulder, half hoping it was Sophia's Aunt Maureen, but knowing, just from the sound of the footfalls, that it was someone much bigger than she was.
And it was, indeed, someone much bigger—than Dave even.
Male, Caucasian, mid-thirties, 250 pounds, about six-six. Gang tatts— teardrops on his face, but faded—as well as inked letters on both of his hands, between his knuckles and the first joints of his fingers. Dave wasn't close enough to read what they spelled out.
He kept moving—his rental car was just ahead in the far corner of the lot, alone save for a dark blue pickup truck right next to it. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone as he glanced back at the big man again.
Shaved head, pale eyes—it was hard to tell their color in the low-wattage fluorescent streetlights—pierced eyebrow and nose, mangina beneath his lower lip.
Leather jacket slick with rain, jeans, biker boots.
He hadn't increased his pace at Dave's double-take, but he also hadn't angled off toward the only other cluster of cars. He just kept moving, parallel to Dave now—closer to the two vehicles. It was entirely possible that the blue truck was his, and that coincidence had brought them into the parking garage at this exact same moment in time.
Judging a man from his appearance was neither nice nor PC, but before Dave could comment on the weather
—hell of a night for a trip to the hospital,
at which point the big man would proudly announce that his wife had just had a baby girl, their first child—he heard the unmistakable metal swish of a switchblade knife being unsheathed.
He looked again, and sure enough, the dim light glinted off a nasty-looking blade held with a distinctly non-amateurish grip in the behemoth's extra-large hand.
Running for his car was not an option— knife-guy was planted neatly between it and Dave.
So Dave stopped, too. He stood there, in the rain, and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?” as he took out his cell phone and
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