Page 6 of Final Exit

She could circle back to her car. If she reached it before Cord assigned agents to watch the house, and she managed to get her keys, she’d still have Nichols and the Suburban blocking the exit onto the highway to deal with.

That still left one accessible andunguardedvehicle close by.

His.

He took a quick step back, wincing at the strain on his leg even as he grabbed his pistol and swept it out in front of him. But there was no sign of the curvy, petite, infuriating redhead, no flash of her white T-shirt. No footprints that he could make out, not that she’d probably leave prints here where the sun had baked the ground like a kiln earlier in the day.

Using the powerful LED light on his key chain, he inched forward and shined the light through the dark, tinted windows at the driver’s seat, the backseat, the floorboard. Nothing. No one was hiding inside.

He considered all of the options again and peered into the darkness toward the thick trees. If he were in Bailey’s shoes, what would he do? He’d been studying her for months, trying to anticipate her actions, figuring out where she might hide. So what would she do?

After pondering all the alternatives for a full minute, he opened the driver’s door and slid behind the steering wheel.

Then he opened the bottle of Jim Beam.

Chapter Three

Saturday, 2:15 a.m.

Bailey rested on her stomach, her phone’s screen the only thing visible in the dark as she typed a text to one of the few people she trusted—Hawke, an Enforcer she’d worked with on several rescue missions overseas.

On their last mission together, they’d been tasked with getting a diplomat’s family to safety in a volatile situation where any public US involvement could have caused an international incident.

Disguised as a rebel, she’d been tucking one of the diplomat’s toddler daughters into the vehicle that would whisk them to safety when an unfriendly had approached her from behind. All she’d heard was a rush of air before whirling around to see the man lying with his throat slit on the ground behind her, a machete still clutched in his hand. Hawke was standing over him, holding a knife that was dripping blood.

He’d earned her respect, her trust, and her loyalty. She’d returned the favor by saving his life the very next day. In some people’s books that might make them even. But she still felt she owed him, and probably always would.

She typed out a text.I’m still evading pursuit. You?

I’m a bit of a mess, but hanging in there. Managed to get to a good hiding place to lick my wounds. The buggers will probably give up soon.

Dismay curled in her stomach.Wounds figuratively or literally?

No worries. I’ll be okay.

She glanced around her hiding place, listening intently before texting her reply.

Too bad you’re not in Boulder. We could do something relaxing, like bungee-jump off a cliff.

Too bad you’re not in Colorado Springs. We could count cards and get thrown out of the Double Eagle.

She smiled. He still had his sense of humor. Maybe he really was okay.

I saw the Ghost tonight. Up close and personal.

An emoticon of a shocked face appeared on her screen.Guy or girl?

Most definitely a man, his broad, well-defined chest shown off to spectacular advantage in a tight, black T-shirt tucked into sexy black jeans that molded to his muscular thighs and tight rear end. Standing at about six foot two with short dark hair and an angular face that gave him a hard, dangerous look, his body could make a saint drool. Since Bailey wasn’t a saint—not even close—she hadn’t been immune to his hard body and earthy, male scent. Even though she’d hated herself for thinking of him that way.

Then she’d looked into his eyes.

They’d been dark wells of shocking desolation that could freeze a wildfire. Even now she shivered at how bleak they’d been.

Guy, she typed. The word didn’t come close to describing the sense of power, of authority, that wrapped itself around him and had both fascinated and worried her at the same time.

You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. What happened?

Lucky? Perhaps. He’d been armed. She hadn’t seen the pistol, but she’d felt the familiar hard edge of its grip digging into her hip as he’d pinned her down. Her mouth had practically salivated at the thought of grabbing his gun since she’d had to leave all of her weapons back at the house. But he’d clamped her wrists in an iron-tight hold. So why hadn’thegone for his weapon? Why was she still alive? Because he was in too much pain after she’d kicked him?

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