Page 54 of Ex-SEAL Bad Boy

That's the thing about the heavily wooded stretches of rural North Carolina and Virginia. All sorts of military posts dot the landscape, and if you weren't careful, you just might run into one.

I can only imagine how sideways things might have gotten if they had forced us to stop.

Me, with a gunshot wound, fake IDs and carrying a handgun, and Sophia—well—they'd probably think I had kidnapped her or something.

Of course, they'd soon find out we were also wanted by the FBI for questioning.

I was familiar enough with military security protocol to know that the men at the gate had recorded our license plate and photographed it with the security cameras mounted on the gate.

It might be a good idea to ditch the car soon.

Running the plate wouldn't do much. I had legitimately purchased the car in Virginia ... under a false name, of course.

But those guys were pretty good at putting various pieces of seemingly unrelated information together to form a complete picture.

I can't be sure what might come of it.

I don't think Whitmore has his claws in the military, but I can't be certain.

I have half a mind to drive up to D.C. and camp out in some motel just outside the city limits.

Kind of like having a ringside seat to the aftermath when it actually comes.

If it ever comes.

For the first time, I'm having doubts about the ability of the press and law enforcement to actually follow the evidence. Granted, investigations take time, and it's only been a few days, but our luck, such as it was, couldn't last forever.

I look over at Sophia and smile. For an amateur, she is holding up remarkably well.

It occurs to me that maybe I always had an innate sense that she is more than just a pretty face.

The fact that she has always been generally unimpressed by me, my looks, my money, my power, appeals to me.

She knows who I am—probably better than I do.

She is what I have been seeking, a woman who can challenge me intellectually and speak her mind, especially when she knows something is not right.

Maybe I need someone whose moral compass works better than mine.

I’ll never understand why the Great Dismal Swamp is called what it is.

It’s actually quite beautiful.

In fact, when I was a kid, I went camping with a few other guys on the football team back in high school, and we came out here.

The seedy little motel where we’d decided to make camp for the night was on the western outskirts of Chesapeake, Virginia.

On the surface, it might seem like an odd choice, being so close to home, but it’s almost counterintuitive. If people think you’re running away, they won’t be paying as much attention close to home.

At least I hope not.

I’m feeling confident enough to suggest to Sophia that we take a short walk down to the little park at the trailhead.

The trails that wound down to Lake Drummond are quite scenic, but with the hole in my leg, that’s out of the question.

Despite the fact that I don’t anticipate any trouble, I slip the pistol into my waistband.

As we travel the short distance from the motel to the trailhead, I reach for her hand and we walk along hand-in-hand.

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