Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

T he farmhouse was dark, except for a single porch light glowing softly at the front door.

Truman cruised by on the rural road twice, watching for any movement. He parked in a strategic spot where he could see the three acres fairly well and let his overworked senses try to pick up on anything out of place.

"It's charming," Emma said beside him. “Out of the way and homey. Mum would have liked it because of the location and privacy."

Truman doubted the rambling two-story would meet Catherine’s sophisticated and expensive tastes. “Dolan’s a wanker, but we’re on the same side.”

“Are we?”

He didn't take offense at her paranoia or doubt. "We’re both commissioned on a project that's bigger than any of this stuff. If he were to throw me under the bus, he’d end up with his own ass in the same jam."

"So why are we sitting here surveilling the safe house instead of going in?"

"I never walk blindly into any situation. Even if this place is clean, I need to take a moment and just watch."

He rolled down the window, listening to the early-season insects starting up their chorus. The horse farm across the way was set back from the road, and outside of a few lights around the barn and back of the house, all was quiet there. No people moving around, no animals still out in the fields.

A light breeze blew the smell of barnyards to his nose. Not his favorite.

In the distance, they could hear the noise of an occasional car or truck. The safe house was fairly secluded, but it was an easy jaunt to get back to a main road. He suspected it would have a top-notch security system, but he wondered who might be monitoring it. Why had Dolan secured it?

The Irishman preferred working alone, that was no secret. He didn't like sharing his space, not even temporarily. He'd always been that way, and while Truman wanted to embrace this generous gift, his curiosity and paranoia required that he know who owned it and why they’d offered it up.

Dolan had confirmed MI5 was looking for Truman, at least so far as they had expressed to the Feds. Although Truman’s deeper mission was a shield against most of his illegal antics in Jolly Ol’ England, spinning this caper into something his boss would buy as crucial to national security stretched that already long leash to the breaking point.

Still, Dolan had supplied him with three burner phones, night vision goggles, and several other gadgets. Someone—probably their boss—had okayed helping him that much.

Or, Brigit had bribed him.

Either way, Truman didn't figure he would need anything outside of the mobiles, but Dolan was a gadget guy. It was his love language. Accepting the gifts strengthened their wonky friendship. Dolan was a crabby SOB, but he was loyal to a fault.

Besides, knowing Dolan, he was keeping a running list of what Truman owed him, and even the gadgets would somehow end up on it if Truman didn't return them.

"We only have an hour to get to the park and leave the phone," Emma said.

Time was always a fickle asset. She was important to dead drops and missions, but could also put you under severe constraints. "We have time."

Emma was antsy. She wasn't used to the spy life, where half the time you sat and waited and the other you dodged the bad guys and ran for your life. "Do you really think she'll show?"

He honestly didn't know. It could go either way, depending on how much loyalty Gani still felt to Catherine. Bolstering Emma’s hope was his priority, however. “Of course she will. From the way you've described her, she probably feels responsible for you."

"You don't think you laid it on too heavy in that email, do you?"

He'd pretended to be her mother, concerned that Emma was in danger. Channeling Catherine hadn’t been hard, considering that Emma was indeed in danger. “Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

She fell silent, and he tuned into their surroundings again. For long minutes, he breathed in the air, listened to the insects, and logged every entrance and exit to the property and house. No one came or went down the road that accessed the front drive. A man exited the barn at the horse farm but didn't even look their way, crossing a large expanse to get to the house before disappearing inside.

Clouds were moving in, and the distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning predicted they were about to get a spring storm. He rolled up the window. "Stay here. I'm going to check it out. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, call me."

They’d each taken a burner and programmed the other’s number into it. Hers was in her lap and she fiddled with it. "I'm coming with you."

"Safer for you to stay here.” He snatched up the goggles from the backseat. “I’ll have a look around and make sure the place isn't bugged so we can speak freely."

He started to slip out of the car, and she grabbed him, yanking him to her. Face-to-face, she held his gaze. "I said, I'm coming with you."

When he started to argue, she shut him up by kissing him.

Thunder cracked, and damn, he couldn't resist her warm lips. The kiss turned hotter, wetter, and he slid a hand behind her head, holding her in place as he explored her mouth. She gripped the front of his shirt, her tongue dancing with his, and it was only a burst of lightning that made her jump, breaking the embrace.

The storm was moving in fast. They were both panting hard. “We need to go," he said.

She nodded. “After you.”

They vacated the car, and he took her hand, jogging across the road from their hideout and along a wooden fence. Fat raindrops began to fall, smacking them in the face as they used a wooden fence for cover to keep out of sight. He paused at the edge of an outbuilding and scanned the exterior of the house with the goggles. There were no visible trip wires or motion sensors. The place had the feel of something that had been sitting empty for some time.

There were cameras at both front and rear entrances, but that was to be expected. They were making their presence known as they hustled onto the back porch and then used the key to enter a mudroom.

A security monitor lit up, showing Truman a black-and-white shot of the two of them. The readout showed Enter Passcode .

Shit. Dolan hadn’t shared that.

Quickly running number combinations through his head, he wondered if the same code for the metal box at the apartment might work for this.

He really had no choice—if it hadn’t already, the security system would alert someone of their presence within sixty seconds.

Just as he was about to give it a go, the tiny camera zoomed in on him. Several small circles lit up on the screen at various facial points, and the readout switched to Welcome Home . T he shamrocks are blooming .

He blew out a breath. Emma did, too.

Whoever was monitoring the house knew they were here, and the next few minutes would be crucial to whether this truly was safe for them or not.

Shamrocks. Had to be Dolan, the wanker.

He turned on the lights and used one of the Irishman’s precious gadgets to sweep the room for bugs. Neither the handheld device’s light or the alarm went off.

His shoulders, so tight he could bounce quarters off them, relaxed a bit. “This room is clear. I’ll check the rest.”

She opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. “Want one?”

He shook his head. When he started for the adjoining room—a wide-open living space with tall ceilings and a marble mantel, she joined him. He considered protesting just to see if she’d kiss him again, but time was of the essence. He had to check every outlet, lamp, ceiling fan, and smoke detector. For now, he’d only do the main floor and leave the upstairs, which he assumed held the bedrooms, for after their dead drop.

Emma followed silently, continually glancing out the windows, worried someone might sneak up on them. Engrossed in his work, he didn’t realize she’d slipped off to another room until she called out. “Truman?”

He found her in a den with an office at the far end of a hall. “What?”

She stood at the desk, eyeing something. “Looks like someone left this for you.”

He made his way to her, seeing a typed note. Gidget sends her best regards .

His psychologist friend was acting more like a spy every day.

Under the note was a small plastic box. In the center was a depressed slot in the shape of a black circle.

"What’s that?" Emma asked. “Is it really from Brigit?"

“Fingerprint reader.” Truman inserted his thumb and the box hummed to life—was this one of Dolan’s, or did it belong to the Agency? He wasn’t sure it mattered—the safe house was safe.

For now.

A tiny drawer popped open. Inside it was a USB. "Did you see a computer anywhere?"

"There are several slots on the security monitor at the back door and one on the fridge. Can you use either of those?”

Bingo. “Blimey. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re tired.” She caressed the side of his face. He hadn’t shaved since before the party and his stubble was thickening by the hour. “I don't know how you can do this all the time."

He took a few swigs of her soda, then kissed her. "I don't do it regularly, only once in a while, and honestly, it's been a long time since I've been on the run from the good guys." He winked. "I hope you're going to make it worth my while."

She smacked him on the butt. “I’d do it right now, but we don't have time. What's on the USB?"

She trailed after him as he returned to the kitchen, finding the slot he wanted on the smart fridge. The screen came to life with three files. He touched the first, and it opened.

Emma gasped as she saw the photos and read the notes along with him. "That's Marco." She elbowed him out of the way and used the touchscreen to move to the next page. "That's Rena."

Her eyes were wild, and she whipped her head around to look at him. "They’re dead?"

Being in prison could be as dangerous as being free. Someone had gotten to two of the Red Hearts behind bars. All in the past twenty-four hours.

He scrolled back and read the details. How and where they were attacked by fellow inmates. The injuries that caused a fatal wound for each. Two different prisons, two different killers, but only one intent—silence them forever.

As he finished reading about Rena, he realized there was a third page.

He slid down to that one, the photo there a shock. Emma's knees buckled and she fell to the floor. "No!"

He crouched and cradled her to his chest, her sobs louder than the thunder outside.

The photo on the third page was that of Catherine Owens.