Page 27 of High Velocity

“Exactly,” I return. “And that’s what I aim to find out. The girlfriend’s place is a trailer, set way back from the road in the woods. There’s no way to keep an eye on the place without getting noticed. Trust me, this is a faster and safer way to get the information.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” he snaps stubbornly.

Now he’s just pissing me off.

I toss my mascara in the sink, giving up my attempts at putting on makeup, and walk out of the bathroom.

“Need I remind you, you’re the one who asked for my help?” I sit down on the edge of the bed and lace up my Chucks. “Too bad if you don’t like the way I do it; last time I checked you weren’t paying my salary.”

That’s met with silence on the other end. Smart man.

“Now if you don’t mind,” I continue. “I need to get going; I’m already late.”

“Call me after,” I can just hear him say as I end the call.

“Asshole,” I grumble, shoving my phone in my small cross-body purse.

Big bags are cumbersome, and although this little one doesn’t hold a hell of a lot, it leaves my hands free. Besides, it fits everything I need, plus, I can run with it in case I have to get myself out of a situation fast. Hence the jeans and sneakers as well.

Of course, I’m hoping it won’t come to that, but you never know. If Mitchel Laine happens to show up, there’s always a chance he might recognize me. The last time he would’ve seen me would’ve probably been at his trial, but that was twelve years ago when I was a fresh-faced agent.

Since then, time has marked itself in the lines on my face and the glints of silver in my blond hair. I would’ve had my hair back in a tight ponytail and been wearing a suit. Today my hair is loose, showing off my new haircut, and I’m wearing a boho top over torn jeans and my pink Chucks. I don’t look anything like an FBI agent.

I grab the small container of Mace off the counter in the kitchen and slip it into the small purse. Not much in terms of a weapon, but enough to get the upper hand in a fight, if ever it came to that.

As I get behind the wheel of my SUV, I suddenly feel a little uneasy about going. I’m so used to working with a team behind me, it didn’t fully hit me until just now I’ll be out there on my own. Hell, no one even knows where I’m going.

Damn Ben, for making me question myself.

As I feel anxiety build, I pull up a number on my dashboard display and dial. Then I back out of my parking spot in front of the trailer.

“Hey.”

I have no idea what’s happening to me; just the sound of his voice puts a sappy smile on my face, and the panicked feeling dissipates.

“Sorry to bug you…” I start, but I’m immediately cut off.

“You’re not,” Jackson assures me. “This is a welcome break from the piles of laundry I’ve ignored for weeks and decided to tackle this morning. Unless…you’re not canceling on me, are you?”

“No, not canceling,” I clarify.

“Good. So what are you up to?”

“I’m actually on my way to meet someone for lunch,” I share, turning onto the highway toward town. “She’s a hairdresser at the salon in Libby, but lives in a trailer at 254 Waterfront Road in Troy. She cut my hair yesterday and ended up inviting me.”

He hums in response. Of course there isn’t much for him to say, I’m aware I sound a bit random, but I’m unsure how much to share with him. If I tell him, is he going to freak out and go full protector mode on me? Then again, if I don’t give him the background and something does end up going wrong on my end, he might walk into something he’s not prepared for.

“I’m actually doing a favor for someone,” I confess.

“A favor,” he echoes, sounding a bit confused.

“Yes, for a colleague. He needs to know the whereabouts of a suspect in a case he’s working. He suspects his target may have come this way to meet up with his girlfriend.”

“The girlfriend being your hairdresser?” Jackson concludes accurately.

“Right,” I acknowledge, sharing with him how I ended up with an invitation to lunch today.

“Clever,” he comments, before adding, “Could be risky.”

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