Page 86 of Hunter

A sentry stepped smartly into her path as she approached the guardhouse. The gate beyond it was closed, blocking her exit.

As she came to a stop, she willed her hand to steadiness and rolled down her window.

“I’m sorry, ma’am; you can’t leave the grounds,” the sentry said as he approached the car.

“I have a pass,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice even as she prayed that Hunter would keep quiet, prayed that the guard wouldn’t glance into the back seat and ask what she was hiding under the blanket.

Quickly, she handed the laminated plastic card through the window.

He inspected it, then gave her an appraising look. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “There’s been an incident. All passes have been temporarily suspended. Didn’t you hear the directive from the Chief of Operations?”

“I was out jogging,” she improvised.

“Please step out of the car and come with me.”

She looked again at the gate. If she’d thought she could ram her way through it, she would have. But she knew that a frontal assault wasn’t possible with the doctor’s car.

“Come with me,” the man said again, leaning down to open her door. When she sat frozen in place, he reached inside and efficiently unbuckled her seat belt.

Before he could straighten, the back door of the car shot open and Hunter sprang out. In a flash of motion, he leaped toward the sentry. Catching him by surprise, he landed a powerful, two-handed blow on his back.

The guard went down, just like Anderson. Kathryn watched in a daze, hardly believing the sudden reversal of fortune. Hunter might be practically disabled, but every time she needed him, he came through for her.

She was still standing there, wondering what to do next, when he turned and sprinted inside the guardhouse. Moments later, she heard a whirring noise, and the gate began to swing open on well-oiled hinges.

“Go!” he shouted to Kathryn as he stood breathing hard and holding on to the edge of the doorframe, looking as if he would fall over without the support. It was obvious that the sudden violent activity had drained him again.

“Not until you get in the car,” she shouted back.

He made a grating sound of protest. “You cannot stay here. Colonel Emerson will send men. And. . . and Anderson knows you are not dead. He knows . . . I want to get you. . . away.”

She folded her arms across her chest and bluffed through her teeth. “If you don’t get in the car, I’m not leaving.”

His features contorted as he remained clutching the doorframe. Either he was holding himself up, or he was trying to keep from moving forward.

“Do you need some help?” she asked, starting toward him.

“No.” He sucked in a strangled breath, then let it out in a rush. Slowly, dragging his feet, he walked toward her. The misery on his face made her throat constrict. He looked like a man in great pain, or a man walking the last mile to his execution.

“Everything’s going to be all right now,” she told him quickly. “As soon as we meet up with an outfit called Decorah Security. We’ll get you to a doctor and find out what Anderson did to you.”

He shook his head as he slid into the passenger seat and leaned back against the headrest, eyes shut, teeth clenched.

The moment he closed the door, she gunned the engine and shot through the open gate, turning left as Jonah had directed.

She glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting another vehicle to materialize out of the darkness. But hers were the only headlights on the road, in front or in back of her. It looked like they were in the clear—so far. And if the cavalry was really just around the bend, she and Hunter could make a swift escape.

They were on a stretch of rural highway that wound through deep woods. There were no streetlamps, and her headlights stabbed through the dark, illuminating a sharp curve ahead. Narrowly avoiding a tree that loomed in her path, she slowed her speed as she leaned forward, searching for signs of the rescue team. Probably she was still too close to the grounds, she told herself.

Beside her, Hunter sat rigidly, his hands clasping and unclasping in his lap.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

“No. I cannot tell you.”

“Something you don’t want me to know about?” she asked gently.

She heard his breath rattle in his throat. “Kathryn, listen to . . . me,” he gasped out. For long moments, he was silent, breathing rapidly. Then he began to speak again. “Listen hard,” he said in a voice that was thick with agony. “What if someone—what if Anderson pumped drugs into Harrison—drugs that made him do what Anderson told him to do. What if Harrison . . . wanted to tell you about it, but he couldn’t say it?”

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