Page 58 of Hunted: Season Two

Our right turn at the next light is followed by a left into a medical strip center beside a hospital about three minutes down the road.

The lack of suspicious activity during our drive is both relieving and unsettling.

It’s not that Iwantus to be followed or attacked, it’s just that anytime we momentarily believe we aren’t is the moment when someone strikes.

We have to keep our guards up.

Every step of the way.

Upon getting out of the cherry red Range Rover that matches my lipstick, Nolan drapes an arm around my shoulder, adding an extra amount of cover, during our walk across the parking lot.

“Brights on, Kid,” our boyfriend mutters under his breath. “To your right.”

Kipp lifts the device with the camera option on and loudly pretends to be working, “Mr. Toretto, your accountant wants to know if this is the right amount?”

I poorly stifle my snicker over Nolan’s grumble, “Really? Toretto?”

“Is this wrong?” Amusement dances freely in his voice at the same time he hits the capture button. “Did you not spend this amount on massages in L.A. last weekend?”

The person in the distance seems to pay no attention to us allowing their faked conversation to fade more into a background noise level. “L.A.?” We step onto the curb in tandem. “Are you really just gonna pull everything you can from those movies?”

“Absolutely.” His smug smirk precedes him rushing to open the door for us. “That’s the only way this is going to be fun forme.”

Kipp not only holds it, but he also cleverly snaps shots of those already inside. Getting them over to Garcia who will get them over to his P.I. and tech person to search throughfor suspicious people withanypossible ties directly to Brad or ties to the bounty hunters or cops who have bothered us is the secondary part of this mission, with the first of course being to discoverifI’ve physically got any sort of tracker in my body.

Honestly?

I hope I don’t.

I hope that my body hasn’t been violated in a new and horrifying way.

Do I want answers?

Yes.

Of course.

Do I want shit to make sense that hasn’t?

Definitely.

But do I want to find out that I’ve been unknowingly bugged with a listening device or tracking device for some unknown amount of time?

No.

I’m not sure I’d ever feelliterally safein my own skin again.

Inside the small building, Nolan and I head for the front desk, leaving The Kid to casually grab a few more photos while pretending to search for a place to sit.

The older woman behind the desk stops smacking on her gum to ask, “Can I help you?”

“Checking in for B,” Mutt quietly informs, “B. Ripley.”

After a brief stretch of clacking sounds, she questions, “For Dr. Garcia at four?”

“Correct.”

“Yeah,” the woman mindlessly retorts prior to reaching for a clipboard. “Fill out this form and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”

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