Page 70 of Agency
“Fine,” he said. “Fucking fine.”
Chapter Twenty
Ambyr
The worst part of all this?
I kind of liked being tucked in. I could still remember the last time Mom had put me to bed, back before the crash that completely altered the course of my life. I couldn’t have been older than eight.
Morgan didn’t look nearly as beautiful as her, of course, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t look handsome.
And, before you get any ideas, I didn’t like being tucked in because of some weird kink. No, there was something about all the small movements, all the care and intent. The way he asked if I was comfortable, and how he asked if I wanted the fan on, or not.
“Are you fucking smiling?” he asked, hand on the ceiling fan’s light chain.
I shook my head. “No!”
Muttering to himself, he turned out the light and left the room, then disappeared downstairs.
“Oh thank God,” I muttered. His going downstairs would make this so much easier.
Less than a minute later, though, and he was coming back up the steps. Bootfalls approached my door and were followed by the soft thud of hard, wooden chair legs against hardwood floor outside on the landing.
“Great.” He was posting up right outside my door. “Just great.”
So, I lay there, again going over my plan, and waiting, waiting, waiting, as my scar on my lower back continued to itch.
First, unlock my cuffs. Second, get dressed. Third, go out one of those windows on the backside of the cabin. Fourth? Proceed south or west, depending on local topography, and find a road where I could hitch a ride to the nearest truck stop. Because, they might have checked through my bag and found my weapon, cash, and fake identification papers, but that didn’t mean they’d searched through my clothes and found everything else I’d spent part of the afternoon squirreling away.
Finally, after what felt like ages but was most definitely at least an hour, I made my move.
I rolled over and began to drag my nails across the edge of the scar on my back. A half-dozen scrapes of my short nails later, and I was peeling away the latex to reveal both a lockpick and a universal handcuff key.
Operatives hide all sorts of things on their bodies, particularly when they’re going in for some truly dangerous work. This one I reapplied every so often, as a just-in-case measure. Typically, if I was going to a serious war zone, I’d stash them in even more uncomfortable places.
Working blind with my fingers, I had one of the bracelets unlocked in seconds, and the other soon followed, then I was up and on the edge of the bed. I’d been paying attention to where the squeaky floor panels were while Morgan and I had been occupying the room together, but there was no way we’d covered every inch. So, now, I prodded with my toes for any that felt loose. This part of the room seemed fine, but I couldn’t know for sure beforehand.
Satisfied I could safely walk without making much noise, I padded over to my bug-out bag. On the way, I stopped and grabbed my rumpled pants from the floor, then my socks and boots, before crouching next to my bag and beginning to go through the contents. Bra, extra panties. No passports, ID, or weapon, though, confirming what Andrew had said.
Men, though, never think of every hiding place a woman might have…
Grabbing my bra, I ran a finger across a spot along the seam of one cup’s liner which I’d torn out and sewn back up earlier in the day, verifying nothing had been tampered with. I did the same with the other. Good. Between the two cups was two-thousand dollars–two-thousand dollars I’d be needing to get out of here and find Aunt Val. I got up from my crouch and headed back to the bed with my pants and boots, and stopped dead as a board creaked underfoot.
Shit.
Outside, the chair shifted.
How in the fuck was he not asleep yet? He’d been involved in a physical fight, a combo shootout and high speed chase, and had worked a full shift the day before. Why in the hell couldn’t I have had someone incompetent holding me prisoner?
I let my foot up, and there was another low creak.
The chair moved.
Fuck!
On tip-toes I walked quickly to, first, the window sill to hide my key and pick, and then back to the bed.
Morgan’s hand touched the doorknob. “Hey,” he whispered through the door just as I was putting the first cuff on. “Ambyr?”
