Despite the darkness that was broken only by the white-hot glare of the bikes’ headlights, she instantly knew which man was Hunter. The breadth of his shoulders and the casual way his gloved hand splayed across his denim-clad thigh was unmistakable. Even after three years.
“Start the engines!” she wailed, never breaking stride as her feet left the dirt of the shoulder and hit the pavement. “He’s right behind me!”
Hunter didn’t need to be told twice. He cranked over the bike’s big engine and the night was once again filled with the throaty roar of a well-tuned piece of machinery. The second man followed suit. And by the time she made it to them, they’d swung the motorcycles around in the road.
She didn’t wait to be invited before throwing her leg over the leather seat behind Hunter. Wrapping one arm around his waist, she screamed, “Go!” Then she turned to aim into the line of trees behind them.
Her desperate eyes searched for a tiny blackhole since the end of a weapon absorbed all light. But no matter how hard she looked…nothing.
No faint glint of matte-black metal caught in the glow of the taillights. No flash of orange because the shooter had taken his shot.
Hunter laid on the throttle and the bike’s massive rear end fishtailed as its back tire fought for purchase on the pavement.
She was caught off guard. The only thing that saved her from being thrown off the bike and taking a face full of asphalt was Hunter. He reached around with one arm and pulled her tight against his back.
It was like being caught in a reverse bear hug.
Big, bulky guys might be able to throw their weight around. But guys who were lean and mean, with muscles made for stamina and staying power? They were the true strong men of the world.
And Hunter Jackson could be counted among them.
From one second to the next, they’d gone from a standstill to eating up the asphalt. The bikes’ taillights cast the forest behind them in an eerie red wash. But that wasn’t what made her shiver despite the warmth of the night.
It was the figure climbing the embankment.
The man made his way to the middle of the lonely, deserted road, but he didn’t raise a weapon. He didn’t shout or give chase. He just stood there, mouth pursed like he was blowing her a kiss.
No, she thought. Not blowing me a kiss. He’s whistling.
She couldn’t hear the tune over the rumble of the motorcycles. But something told her, had she heard it, she’d want to scrub her eardrums with bleach.
Pulling a lighter from his hip pocket, the Russian slowly lit a cigarette.
She shivered again when the yellow glow of the flame briefly lit his face. His features were made indistinct by the growing distance, but she was still close enough to catch the look in his eyes.
His casual curiosity seemed to scream his unconcern. It seemed to say he didn’t doubt his ability to track her down and finish what he’d started.
It was an understatement to say she felt relief when they turned a corner and she could no longer see her pursuer. The sigh that shuddered out of her was long and windy.
She realized her hands were shaking when she tried to stow her gun and couldn’t place the nose of her Glock inside its holster. It kept hitting the edge of the leather and sliding down the side.
Her third attempt was successful. And after snapping the strap over the butt of the weapon, she grabbed hold of Hunter with both hands.
The move was a relief in more ways than one. Not only was it nice to have something—someone—to hang onto when she felt so shaky she thought it a wonder her teeth weren’t rattling around inside her mouth. But also, they were screaming down the road at sixty miles per hour and she was well aware of her precarious position perched on the back of the bike.
The wind buffeted her cheeks and yanked at her hair, caught the sides of her suit jacket and had it flapping behind her like a drunken bat. Hunter’s reflected gaze in one of the rearview mirrors caught her attention. He tapped his helmet and then gestured toward the back of the bike.
Frowning, she turned to discover a helmet strapped to the U-shaped bar of the backrest.
Right, she thought. Wouldn’t it be ironic to escape Orpheus’s clutches only to end up x-ed out from a head injury if I’m thrown off the motorcycle?
The helmet was a little big and she struggled to secure the chin strap. But once she managed it, she snaked her arms back around Hunter’s waist and yelled, “Thank you!”
He didn’t so much as twitch. The noise of the booming engines and the wailing of the wind made it impossible for him to hear.
Just as well. Her heart was in her throat and beating hard enough to make talking, much less shouting, feel like someone was running a bottle brush across her tonsils.
Or maybe her sore throat could be blamed on her having held back frustrated screams for hours now.
Her operation was a bust, her partner was dead—Jesus! Poor Stewart!—a Russian assassin, not to mention her very own agency, was after her. And she had no idea where to begin to sort out any of it.
To make matters worse, she had to pee.
Her desperation to get far away from Koontz Lake, Indiana, was the only thing that kept her from poking Hunter on the shoulder and gesturing for him to pull over. Well, that and the last thing she wanted was for him to watch her run into the bushes and drop trou five minutes after racing to her rescue.
She needed to take her mind off her discomfort.
Fortunately, she was snuggled up behind the ultimate distraction.
Closing her eyes, she dragged the smell of Hunter into her lungs. A smell that was mixed with the aroma of the open road and the sweetness of the summer night.
For three years she’d dreamed of the complementary scents of spicy aftershave and leather oil. And she’d assumed that second note had to do with the antique watch he wore around his thick wrist. The one with the leather band. The one she’d noticed he wound when he was deep in thought.
Now, however, she realized he might smell of leather oil because he wore leather. Because he was some sort of spy/soldier/biker?
Didn’t have quite the same ring as Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy but it was close.
Who are you, Hunter Jackson?
The thought leaked out of her head when his gloved hand closed over the fingers she’d laced together at his waist. He gave her a pat before returning his grip to the handlebar.
It was a gesture of reassurance. Of comfort. And that small act of noblesse oblige had sudden tears burning the back of her throat.
Hunter was basically a stranger. One she hadn’t seen or heard from in years. And yet, when she’d needed him, he’d come.
Without question.
Without hesitation.
She might not know who he worked for or who he really was. But one thing she knew for sure.
Tonight, he’s my savior.
4
“She got away.”
“What do you mean she got away?” The voice on the other end of the call sounded exasperated. Then again, to Pavel Siderov’s ears, the American known as Bishop always sounded exasperated. It was his harried tone. His clipped words that even the voice changer could not disguise. “Did the FBI find her before you did?”
“Nyet.” Pavel shook his head and took another drag on his cigarette. “Two men on motorcycles took her just as I was closing in.”
There was a brief pause. “Motorcycles? Did you catch the plates?”