Page 34 of Ground Zero
Then she heard something. A truck beeping in the distance. A garbage truck.
An idea lit inside her.
She turned to Maverick. “I have a better idea.”
As the truck started down the lane, Sheridan peered from their cover. She checked once again to make sure no one was there.
Then she rushed from their cover and wedged the device into a crevice on the truck’s back bumper. As quickly as she’d left, she ducked back under the boat again.
“That should keep them busy for a while,” Sheridan told him, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice.
He grinned. “Smart thinking.”
It was. However, the damage was already done.
Someone had betrayed her, and she had no idea who.
“Maverick . . .” She suddenly noticed the dark stain spreading across his shirt in the dim light. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down at his arm with the detached calm of someone accustomed to combat injuries. “Must have caught a branch while we were running. It’s not deep.”
“That needs to be cleaned and bandaged.”
“We need to get back to your place,” Maverick replied. “But I don’t know how long we’ll be safe there. The cottage is compromised. The men might assume you’ll go back to your rental, but . . . I’m not sure.”
“Those men should be on that wild goose chase for a while longer. We probably have a little time before they double-back to my rental.”
However, nowhere felt safe anymore.
Not when the enemy could be anyone. Not when the enemy could be someone sitting across from her at a briefing table or someone who’d shaken her hand and looked her in the eye while planning her death.
“Let’s go,” she said. “And pray we can stay ahead of whoever’s hunting us.”
Sheridan and Maverick darted back to her rental.
The compact beach house perched on sturdy pilings, its natural wood siding weathered to a warm honey color that blended seamlessly with the maritime forest behind it.
Large windows dominated the front, and a generous deck wrapped around two sides of the structure. A metal roof gleamed silver in the afternoon sun, and hurricane shutters were neatly folded back against the siding, ready to be deployed when needed.
Once inside, Sheridan collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
But when Maverick turned toward her, she got a better look at the dark stains spreading across the left sleeve of his shirt. “That’s worse than I thought.”
He glanced down at his arm. “It will be fine.”
But Sheridan could see his wound was more than a scratch. A jagged cut ran from his elbow to his bicep, deep enough to need attention.
“Let me look at that.” She moved toward him.
But Maverick held up his hand. “In a minute. First, we need to make sure they didn’t follow us here.”
They positioned themselves near the doors, backs pressed against the warm wood siding, both breathing hard from their sprint.
Maverick peered out the small window atop the door, scanning the access road they’d just used, while Sheridan covered the approach from the sound side.
The minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every sound made them tense—the rustle of sea grass in the wind, the distant cry of gulls, the crashing of waves against a nearby bulkhead.
