Page 37 of The Truths that Deceive

Smith

Ithrow her down and cover her as hell rains down around us. We were close enough to the explosion that the blast is a little too dangerous. The heat from the explosion a little too fucking hot.

In the chaos, I drag her up and out of harm’s way. Anyone else as young as her would probably require me having to waste precious minutes coaxing back to calm. Shit, I’ve had to do that with freshly minted agents before. And ones I’ve needed to extract after they’ve spent years behind desks.

But Calista takes it and runs, like she’s compartmentalized what just happened. Fuck, I don’t know, maybe she’s used to blasts. Maybe she gets off on it. But I don’t think so. I think the part of her brain that makes her so good at her job gives her a place where she can operate on all cylinders when things like this happen. There’s always time to fall apart later.

I can see why the CIA recruited her instead of locking her away.

I can also see why they want to get their hands on her now, this time as possible enemy number whatever the hell.

But we run, her hand gripped tight in mine.

Calista moves with me, fast, low, keeping to the edges of the building where there’s cover, and she doesn’t try and dart into the first door. She doesn’t try and break free and run.

A feral part of me wants her to, though. I want to tackle her down and hit the pavement with her. But this time it wouldn’t be to cover her from the brunt of the explosion. No. I want to cover her so I can fuck her.

I don’t even question my brain’s direction. Libido is just that. So’s a carnal pull to someone. Doesn’t mean I won’t hand her over when the time comes, and doesn’t mean I won’t keep her with me only to throw her under whatever available bus there is the moment I’m done with her.

She’s definitely sitting on something, either something she knows about or is still trying to process, and I’m going to find out before anyone else gets their hands on her.

Hencethis.

We’re traveling light without bags. People scramble around, screaming, voices shouting and emergency vehicles flying past us. We move quickly, Calista scouting the area, eyes wide.

We’re almost there.

The airport car sits just outside the airstrip, and I order her into the back as I jump behind the wheel. She doesn’t ask how it just so happens to sit here, very conveniently, and I don’t fill her in. Instead, I take off at a brisk pace, out into the nighttime countryside of the South of France and in the direction of another airfield.

It’s close, and when we get there, she only looks at me as we’re hustled onto a sleek jet. My jet.

She rubs a hand down the front of her face, not saying a word as we strap in and we go through safety checks. Shedoesn’t speak as we take off, and she ignores the whiskey I get for her from the attendant.

It’s not until we’re in the air and she’s downed her drink that she says, “Who are you, really? And who just fucking tried to kill me?”

“Those are some heavily weighted questions.” I settle back against the plush leather recliner. I know she thinks we’re heading right back to the US, either Washington, DC, or New York, but we’re not.

I can’t let her go yet. There are things I want to know.

Like why she had the number from Estonia about the Collectors on the burner phone when she slipped her SIM card into it. Like what she knows about Bolivia and the weapon.

And I want to know the connections between all of it. Bolivia. Sex trade. Collectors. New weapon.

I know they’re all connected somehow. I can smell it.

And I’m going to investigate every angle, every potential location and cell, before I give her up.

The weapon thing… unless she managed to uncover everything… might be a red herring, at least for me. That’s CIA shit through and through, and she’s either someone who fucked over her agent for money, or she stumbled onto something big and dangerous and deadly.

Could be the former, it’s probably the latter.

But the Bolivian connection is too coincidental to ignore.

Right now, she’s alone in the world. No computer. No evidence that isn’t in an easy-to-get-to place, or so she thinks. I’m betting she has copies of her information somewhere. I know she can probably break into CIA servers, too, which is next-level espionage.

“Why do you think someone’s trying to kill you?”

Calista’s basically bouncing in her seat, panic evident inher expression. “Are you crazy? Were you there? The plane fucking exploded as we were about to board.”

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