Page 55 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

“I’m sorry,” Georgia whimpered into his shirt. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” She chuckled derisively and shook her head. “How pathetic is that, huh?”

“You’re not pathetic. You’re tired, hungry, thirsty, and emotionally bruised. There’s a big difference between that and pathetic.”

She laughed, a genuine laugh this time. “Emotionally bruised? Are you some kind of pop psychologist now, or did you just interview one once?”

“I’m just a guy who’s got three older sisters.”

Georgia laughed out loud. “How much older?”

“The oldest is five years older than me, then three years and one and a half.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. “You probably know what most men would kill to know.”

“What’s that?”

“How a woman’s mind works.”

Peter snorted. “Like hell I do.”

She was still laughing. “Did they paint your fingernails when you were small?”

“Yes.” He looked quizzically at her. “How did you know?”

“I would have done that if I’d had a little brother.”

Something large and loud rumbled past on the street above them, and the vibrations shook the boards overhead, showering them with dirt.

He eased her off his lap, went to the stairs, and up the first four steps in a flash, peering out through the cracks in the floor.

“Tank,” he reported in a low whisper. “It’s stopped. There are a half dozen soldiers sitting on it.” He paused. “Crap,” he swore softly. He came back down, grabbed the rifle from the wall and Georgia off the crate, pulling her into the farthest corner of the tiny room. He put his mouth right next to her ear and spoke in an almost inaudible tone. “They’re searching this street. Don’t move, and don’t make any noise.”

Georgia nodded silently and prepared herself to wait, watching as Peter pointed the lethal end of the rifle at the top of the stairs.

* * *

Peter stood motionlessas one of the soldiers began searching through the rubble outside the shack. It was damn inconvenient of these guys to start searching this street this close to dusk. He could do something about them, get rid of them all, but there was a chance that he could be killed or injured doing it, and an even better chance of freaking Georgia out. If she knew what he was capable of, she’d have a screaming fit. He was sure of it. He was damn sure not looking forward to the moment when he’d finally have to tell her he wasn’t just a journalist after all.

She’d probably never let him kiss her again.

The soldier entered the shack and Peter’s muscles tensed as he readied himself to take the man down should he discover the entrance to the basement. Boards moved and rattled as the man sifted through the piles of rotting wood. Feet walked over head, clearly visible as they blocked beams of light. A board groaned and creaked. The soldier took another step and suddenly there was a sharp crack as his leg went through the floor. Splinters flew everywhere, and he yelled out to his comrades.

Peter kept still and Georgia, crouching behind him, seemed frozen, which was a good thing. Because if the soldier detected any movement below him, they’d have company in seconds.

Two more soldiers ran up but stopped short at the hollered words of the one whose leg was trapped. Peter mentally translated his words.The floor was rotten, he was stuck, and they must be careful or they would all fall through.

His buddies walked cautiously over and helped him pull his leg out. One of them shone a flashlight through the hole his leg had made. But the light never made it to Peter and Georgia’s corner.

The three men left, one shouting something. Peter could only make out part of it, something about the shack. He left Georgia to stand at the base of the stairs where he could hear better. The tank started up and rolled away, leaving the street inhabited by only ghosts and fugitives.

The sky darkened, but he remained where he was, watching the street through the gaps in the floorboards. Georgia was silent and when he glanced over to ensure she was okay, found her propped up in the corner, dozing.

She woke a little while later, asking, “Peter?”

“We’re good,” he told her. “We’ll wait a couple more minutes, then we can go.”

“How long did I sleep?” she asked.

“Twenty minutes or so.” He studied her through the deepening gloom. “Feel better?”

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