clear view of the front entrance.
He lifted his newspaper to cover his face when he saw Mitchell come in through the door. The CIA agent crossed the slate-tiled floor, making his way slowly toward the elevator. Rex saw he was limping, favoring his right leg. His face was battered, a puce colored gash under his right eye.
Rex stood up, casually folded his paper as Mitchell punched the button calling for the elevator. He crossed the lobby, still hidden from Mitchell’s line of vision. He waited for the CIA agent to get into the elevator and pick his floor. As the doors started to close, Rex slipped in between them.
It was just him and Mitchell now, in the confined space. The elevator started its climb.
Mitchell said nothing. He simply turned to watch the lights flick above the door. But Rex had caught the slight flare of recognition in the man’s eyes.
“Haven’t seen you since Marumba, Agent Mitchell, or is it Mr. Mark Bamfield?”
Mitchell tensed but remained silent, watching the floor numbers light up as the elevator slowly climbed. The muscle in his neck twitched. Rex leaned casually back and hit the emergency stop.
The car jerked to an abrupt halt.
He stepped forward. Mitchell took a small step back.
“So what happened to your face, Mitchell, and what’s with the limp? You take a bullet yesterday?”
“Would’ve gone to the cops if I had, Logan. Canadians don’t take kindly to citizens brandishing firearms.”
“You’re real funny, you know, Agent Mitchell. What’re you doing in White River?”
“Same as you Agent Logan. Here for a conference.”
Rex lifted his hand to touch the surgical tape covering the neatly stitched slash on Mitchell’s face. He pressed slightly. Mitchell winced.
“What happened here, huh? Got a bit of a gash?”
“Fell off my rental bike. Now get out of my face, Logan, before I have security haul your ass out of here.”
“Neither of us wants to draw attention to ourselves, now, do we?” Rex turned and released the emergency button. The elevator jerked, sputtered and started to hum. The doors opened on the seventh floor.
Rex held them open as the CIA operative hobbled out. “Oh, just a word of warning, Mitchell, I’m watching you. You stay clear of Hannah McGuire.” Rex watched the flicker of interest cross Mitchell’s eyes before they shut down. The subtle stiffening in his posture did not go unnoticed, either.
“Yes, she’s still alive. I find you within a two-mile radius of her and you get hurt, buddy. Real bad.”
“Don’t threaten me, Logan.” But Mitchell’s voice was weary. Rex watched him turn and limp down the passage. The man looked tired, spent.
Hannah felt a little more like herself after having showered and combed the wild tangle of knots from her hair. It was Tuesday morning. She’d lost yet another day, having slept off most of Monday. But she had to admit, it had done her a world of good. Despite the pain in her ribs and a general stiffness, her energy was coming back. Rex had found her a change of clothes, another pair of track pants and a sweatshirt, a white one. It was fleecy inside and soft on her skin, but huge. She really needed to get some of her own clothes, yet she was absurdly comforted by the voluminous warmth of his garments against her skin.
Rex had ordered breakfast and was serving it alfresco. Hannah pulled a chair up to the small round table on the balcony. Rex lifted the silver dome off a golden cheese omelette. There were small rounds of herbed tomato on the side. The steam curled up and was swallowed by the crisp morning air. Hanna pushed her hair back from her face and inhaled the warm, savory scent. “Looks good, Rex. I must admit, I’m starving.”
He slipped half the omelette onto her plate and poured two cups of Earl Gray before taking his seat at the little round table opposite her. The French doors behind them were open, and the curtains sighed gently with the wafts of cooler air coming in off the slopes of
He lifted his newspaper to cover his face when he saw Mitchell come in through the door. The CIA agent crossed the slate-tiled floor, making his way slowly toward the elevator. Rex saw he was limping, favoring his right leg. His face was battered, a puce colored gash under his right eye.
Rex stood up, casually folded his paper as Mitchell punched the button calling for the elevator. He crossed the lobby, still hidden from Mitchell’s line of vision. He waited for the CIA agent to get into the elevator and pick his floor. As the doors started to close, Rex slipped in between them.
It was just him and Mitchell now, in the confined space. The elevator started its climb.
Mitchell said nothing. He simply turned to watch the lights flick above the door. But Rex had caught the slight flare of recognition in the man’s eyes.
“Haven’t seen you since Marumba, Agent Mitchell, or is it Mr. Mark Bamfield?”
Mitchell tensed but remained silent, watching the floor numbers light up as the elevator slowly climbed. The muscle in his neck twitched. Rex leaned casually back and hit the emergency stop.
The car jerked to an abrupt halt.
He stepped forward. Mitchell took a small step back.
“So what happened to your face, Mitchell, and what’s with the limp? You take a bullet yesterday?”
“Would’ve gone to the cops if I had, Logan. Canadians don’t take kindly to citizens brandishing firearms.”
“You’re real funny, you know, Agent Mitchell. What’re you doing in White River?”
“Same as you Agent Logan. Here for a conference.”
Rex lifted his hand to touch the surgical tape covering the neatly stitched slash on Mitchell’s face. He pressed slightly. Mitchell winced.
“What happened here, huh? Got a bit of a gash?”
“Fell off my rental bike. Now get out of my face, Logan, before I have security haul your ass out of here.”
“Neither of us wants to draw attention to ourselves, now, do we?” Rex turned and released the emergency button. The elevator jerked, sputtered and started to hum. The doors opened on the seventh floor.
Rex held them open as the CIA operative hobbled out. “Oh, just a word of warning, Mitchell, I’m watching you. You stay clear of Hannah McGuire.” Rex watched the flicker of interest cross Mitchell’s eyes before they shut down. The subtle stiffening in his posture did not go unnoticed, either.
“Yes, she’s still alive. I find you within a two-mile radius of her and you get hurt, buddy. Real bad.”
“Don’t threaten me, Logan.” But Mitchell’s voice was weary. Rex watched him turn and limp down the passage. The man looked tired, spent.
Hannah felt a little more like herself after having showered and combed the wild tangle of knots from her hair. It was Tuesday morning. She’d lost yet another day, having slept off most of Monday. But she had to admit, it had done her a world of good. Despite the pain in her ribs and a general stiffness, her energy was coming back. Rex had found her a change of clothes, another pair of track pants and a sweatshirt, a white one. It was fleecy inside and soft on her skin, but huge. She really needed to get some of her own clothes, yet she was absurdly comforted by the voluminous warmth of his garments against her skin.
Rex had ordered breakfast and was serving it alfresco. Hannah pulled a chair up to the small round table on the balcony. Rex lifted the silver dome off a golden cheese omelette. There were small rounds of herbed tomato on the side. The steam curled up and was swallowed by the crisp morning air. Hanna pushed her hair back from her face and inhaled the warm, savory scent. “Looks good, Rex. I must admit, I’m starving.”
He slipped half the omelette onto her plate and poured two cups of Earl Gray before taking his seat at the little round table opposite her. The French doors behind them were open, and the curtains sighed gently with the wafts of cooler air coming in off the slopes of
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