Chapter Twelve

Shane had lost track of Everlee when she'd stepped aside to talk with Alex. All the noise—and there had to be a lot of it—was nothing but subdued mumbling. Made Shane feel as if he were deep underwater and out of touch with reality. Which he was. Thank goodness for ASL. One of the medics tending him knew the same language. He was good enough at signing to keep up a running conversation about what he and his buddies were doing while Shane lay there and let them do their thing. He used the time to catch his breath and his bearings.

Until Everlee came back into view. He didn't have time for medical care then. He had work to do, and, like it or not, she needed protection. She was what, five foot nothing? Brushing his entourage of efficient—and pushy—EMTs aside, Shane ripped the blasted blood pressure cuff off and lifted to his feet. His ears popped when he stood, which brought on a wave of dizziness. Like that was any reason to lay around.

He shook it off and jogged over to his partner, dodging firehoses, charred debris, and feeling pretty damned lucky that he and Everlee were alive. Man, she looked good. Pissed but good. Things could've been worse. He could be one of those gawddamned survivors, and Ev could be on her way to the morgue. Nope. Not going down that slippery slope. She was alive and still as bossy as hell. That was what mattered.

As if she meant to prove it, she tossed the bundle under her arm at him, and he was pretty sure she'd said, "Think quick, big guy."

He caught it one-handed. Holy shit, it was one of his three extra sets of clothes. Good thinking. Shane shook it out, stuffed the socks and underwear in his rear pockets, then draped the jeans over his arm. He looked down at the bandages covering his slightly toasted chest and belly. If the hair on his head was singed, the hair on his chest was burned off and gone. Oh, well. It'd grow back. He shrugged into another new TEAM polo that smelled fresh and clean. But it hurt like a mother sliding over his scraped shoulders, and he now knew the tips of his ears were blistered.

"What's going on?" he asked out loud, though he was close enough to sign. What he hadn't expected was to hear his own voice. He'd spoken louder than he'd intended. Temporary hearing loss, that was all he'd had. But man, the cacophony of heavy engines, men shouting, and hoses spraying was deafening. One of the fire engines had extended a ladder over the far end of Bremmer's roof, and a hose was secured to the top rung. Several firemen on the ladder tended the hose, drenching the flames in the cavern of what was left of a nice family home. Hence, all the racket.

Everlee's jaw was working. Shane took hold of her wrist and pulled her in close to hear her.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she yelled.

"I'm good," he assured her, speaking just as loudly. There was no choice. A person had to shout to be heard.

"Look at all those people, Shane."

"Lots of onlookers," he agreed, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd that had gathered. "Lots of worried moms and dads, little kids, too."

"But look at the crowd. Really look at them. At their faces. You'd think this was a circus show or something."

"In a way it is. It's a disaster, right here on their home turf. Of course they're watching." He forced her head back around to face him. "You're scaring me, Ev. Are you okay?"

She nodded even as she fell into him and put both hands flat on his chest. Her weight on his burned skin hurt, but he stifled the automatic wince and looked down at her. She looked up at him. "No, Shane, I need you to really look at these people, study everyone, not just those behind the police tape. The firemen found a body in the house. Alex doesn't think it's Bremmer's work. But he thinks she's still here, watching her home burn. He wants us to find her and get her to a safe house."

That brought Shane's head up. Just as quickly, Everlee's hands went to the back of his neck and pulled him down until they were nose to nose. He stifled another shudder at the pain she didn't seem to realize she was causing. "Don't be so obvious, big guy," she said firmly. "We don't want to spook her. But are you sure you're okay? No headache or… or anything?"

Shane knew that ‘or anything' crack meant she was worried he'd freak out again. Not happening. Despite the explosion, he was solid. Despite the pain of her touching his neck, he made no effort to pull away. He hadn't been this close to a woman like Everlee in a long time. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd held any female. She'd pressed her entire body against his, and she had one leg between his knees. She'd lifted her hands from around his neck and her fingers were at the back of his head now, combing through his hair. All her plush softness was now flush against him, and that was an unexpected, hot-damned-nice position to be in. A man could endure any pain for this much feminine attention.

She ran a hand over his head, a teasing light in her eyes. "Your hair's singed, big guy. Looks like you sprouted feathers."

"Needed a trim anyway," he replied even as comfort flowed from her body into his at their intimate position. Her brown eyes were dark but sparkling, full of life and excitement. What he wouldn't do to run his hand over her short hair, to feel the silk of those penny-colored strands and the darker brown strands sliding between his fingers.

Everlee thrived on adrenaline, Shane could see that clearly now, and he had a feeling she knew precisely what she was doing. He liked the way she'd taken charge of their mission and of him. These days a guy never knew what women wanted, to be treated like ladies or just another one of the guys. He'd worked with female jarheads before. But things were different in the civilian world, and he was, after all, the new guy on The TEAM. What did he really know about Everlee Yeager? Other than holding her in his arms right now made it hard to breathe, harder to think. Just hard, damn it.

Didn't matter if he knew her well or not. Shane liked her inside his comfort zone. He shifted his feet, strengthening his stance to better hold her. As sharp as she was, she wouldn't stand like this for long. Certainly not once she felt what was going on beneath his zipper.

"You can trust me. I'm good," he answered. Good at holding you.

Everlee didn't step away. Didn't ease back or move her fingers from his head. Didn't act the least bit annoyed that he might be taking advantage of the situation. Which he was. He thought that twinkle in her eye meant she'd wised up. Instead, she leaned her head into him with a sigh. Which put her cheek against his chest, the top of her head under his chin, and her hair in his nose. He inhaled a bellyful, thankful for this small reprieve of—what was that delightful scent? Smoked coconut and ash? Yeah, he'd stand here all day and night if it meant breathing her in.

Her hands shifted to his shoulders, her thumbs stuck in the hollows above his collarbones, her fingertips fluttering like gentle butterfly wings over his shirt. "I thought I got you killed. I'm so sorry, Shane."

"Not hardly." His voice was husky for some reason. Must be the smoke. But there was no way Shane could ignore the feminine body snuggling against him. He circled her tighter inside his arms and let himself enjoy the moment. Because that was all this was—a moment, not a lifetime. An event that wouldn't last nearly long enough, nothing to take too seriously. Nothing to misinterpret. There would be no kiss, no magic moment where time stopped. Everlee was only making an emotional scene because she was as shook up as he was and because she was tracking a suspect. The damned hard truth, but still—the truth.

Even as he luxuriated in the warmth of her body against his, Shane kept his eyes open. The place was crawling with emergency responders, every one of them busy, but most obviously bigger, wider males. The EMTs who'd helped him were now standing over the charred remains the firemen had pulled from the house. A van marked CSI had arrived on scene and was parked between two firetrucks. That added three more people to the scene, all males. DFW's Medical Examiner was right then backing into Bremmer's driveway. That added two more uniformed professionals, one a tall and fit Black woman, the other a skinny white guy in round Harry Potter glasses, both in light gray uniforms. But no sight of Tuesday Bremmer.

Shane let his gaze scroll over the scene, dismissing first responders one by one. He was a trained spotter. This was what he did. He would find Bremmer.

Oddly content in the middle of the mayhem, he let his nose drop deeper into Everlee's sweaty hair. His nostrils flared at the sweet scent of shampoo against her scalp. Even mingled with the sting of ash and smoke, it was still the distraction he needed. Was she feeling the same peaceful sensation? Shane wondered as he held Everlee while he parsed and quartered the scenes around them.

Yellow police tape fluttered from temporary orange barricades set along the opposite curb. Several officers patrolled the perimeter of the quiet crowd, talking to some, nodding to others. Again, those officers were males. The neighbors looked concerned, and Shane wanted to think that concern was for their new neighbor. That someone standing here gawking tonight was actually worried about Tuesday Bremmer, not just their property.

One of the local news channels had a reporter on site, but she'd been sequestered far from the fire with the civilians on the opposite curb. Even now, she was going from one of Bremmer's neighbors to another, sticking her mic in their faces and asking questions. Cocking her head. Actually listening.

Interesting.

Shane stiffened at what he was seeing. There was no accompanying cameraman trailing her. For that matter, there was no support team anywhere in sight. He hadn't seen any news vans. He'd only assumed there had to be at least one, which most people would assume when they saw someone who looked like a reporter with a mic. But if a real reporter was here, she wouldn't be across the street talking with spectators, would she? No, she'd be puffed up with self-righteous ego, demanding to speak with someone in command, the fire marshal maybe. She'd be loud and rude and throwing around her First Amendment rights to free speech and to print sensationalism—or lies—which seemed to be what the press did best these days.

If that reporter actually was Bremmer, she was damned nervy—and smart. Despite the hour and the hubbub, she'd partially hidden her face behind extra-large sunglasses that hid her eyes and most of her cheeks. Her long, brown hair, streaked with chunky blonde streaks and parted down the center, fell casually over her shoulders. She acted perky and interested, friendly, like the typical girl next door, not stressed or worried. Dressed in a dark-pink trench coat that looked more brown than pink beneath the flashing lights, and matching heels that put her at nearly six feet tall, she smiled generously at her neighbors like they were best friends. At least, they should've been. Maybe one or two were friends, but there was something off about the reporter.

A pain tweaked Shane's heart at the very real possibility that Bremmer was like him, acting as if she were fine, while in reality, she had no one in her life who really cared, no one to go home to. That she'd been fighting the world alone, without anyone at her six since her parents died. He'd been like that after he'd lost his mom. He knew how grief and tragedy made a person act rashly, without thinking of themselves or the repercussions of the rash choices they made. That rule about holding off on making major decisions until a year after a death or a major life event was damned straight advice. Should've been a law, not just a good idea.

The hem of her trench coat fell below her knees. The belt was undone. The flapping sides of the coat covered a plain white t-shirt and a good portion of stone-washed jeans, the kind with those trendy horizontal slashes everyone was wearing these days. If that was Ms. Bremmer, she sure had a lot of guts to fake interviews while her home crackled and burned behind her. While someone else died in her home. Unless that person had already been dead. Guess there was always another possibility. But the dead body certainly fit her MO. Even if whoever that person was had already been dead, it was a damned solid plan. Plant a body. Watch it burn. Then waltz away and create another identity. Anyone who watched crime shows on TV knew it'd take months, maybe years, for the forensic evidence from a fire to be processed, longer for DNA. If there were any. By then, Bremmer'd be Mrs. Somebody Else and on her way to another insurance scam.

"Got her," he told Everlee with a certainty born of a man who knew damned well what he was seeing.

Sure enough, Everlee looked across the street despite her telling him not to. "Where?"

"On the curb. Your two o'clock. The reporter in the pinkish, brownish trench coat. See her? Over there by that mother and her two kids. Reporter but no cameraman. Want to bet she's our target?" Shane set Everlee away from him, turned, and took his first step toward Bremmer.

"Let's find out," Everlee replied evenly. If she'd felt anything during their close encounter, she wasn't feeling it now. "I'll go long, big guy. You go short. Don't let her see you coming."

"Copy that," he said as he walked toward the woman he absolutely knew was Ms. Tuesday Bremmer. He could feel it. Take away those outlandish heels, which were a damned good disguise all by themselves, and that long trench coat, and he guesstimated her height at five seven, her weight a hundred or so pounds. Just like her file said.

To maintain a casual meander that wouldn't attract Bremmer's attention, Shane paused at the rear gate of the ambulance and made it look as if he were looking inside for someone. What he really wanted were his pistols back. But the medics had taken them the moment they'd arrived and handed them off to the police. Who knew where they were now? He sidestepped a couple fire hoses on his way across the street, keeping his head down but his eyes on his target.

Someone's little girl squealed, "Mommy, look at that funny man!"

My God, people had actually brought their children to watch their neighbor's house burn. And they were catching what was essentially another person's worst nightmare on their cell phones like it was nothing but a circus event.

To disguise his disgust at this new generation of entitled voyeurs, Shane made a silly bow at the little girl, which allowed him to track Bremmer as well as Everlee. She'd taken the long way up the block, and was right then on the opposite sidewalk, walking straight for the lying reporter.

"You're funny!" the little girl yelled.

"Wait until you see my next trick, little lady," Shane jokingly replied.

That brought the phony reporter's head around. Shane looked her in the eye, at least into her glasses, and knew—he just knew—he was looking at Tuesday Bremmer.

She knew it, too. Bremmer dropped her fake mic, kicked out of her mile-high heels, and ran like the wind—straight into Everlee. Shane took off after her, dodging spectators and neighbors. By the time he caught up, Everlee had Bremmer face down on someone's freshly mown lawn. Her knee was in Bremmer's back while searching her for weapons.

"Good take down," Shane said.

Everlee looked up at him, breathing hard, her eyes bright and shining. "Yeah, not bad if I do say so myself. Thanks to you, she never saw me coming."

"Ouch, you're hurting me. Let me go. You can't do this," the reporter/murderer hissed. Without glasses, the whites of her eyes were wide with fear. "I have rights. Who the heck are you guys, ‘Dumb and Dumber' ?"

Shane got the movie reference, but he wasn't playing. He dropped to one knee alongside the struggling prisoner while Ev cuffed her wrists behind her back. "Settle down, Ms. Bremmer. We're only here to help."

Of course she pitched a fit. "You call this help? And I'm not Ms. Bremmer! Stop calling me that. Now you're putting handcuffs on me? You idiots just made everything worse. Get off me. Let me go!"

"Not happening, Ms. Tuesday Bremmer or should I call you Diane Sawyer?" Everlee asked with sarcasm. "Seeing as how you think you're a reporter."

Shane agreed. "Do you even know any of the people you were talking with? Your neighbors? Don't you care about anyone but yourself?"

"I'm… I'm…"

"You're a liar is what you are, ma'am," he said quietly, his eyes on the crowd in case anyone decided to come to her aid. "Now, we can do this the hard way or you can come quietly, but you are coming with us. We're not turning you over to the police. We're taking you somewhere safe."

That took the wind out of her sails. "Really? You're not? You can? How… how can I be sure? Show me some ID."

Shane leaned back far enough to let her see the bright, shiny, federal contractor, TEAM badge clipped to his belt. "I'm TEAM Agent Hayes. My partner's Agent Yeager. We're not the only ones looking for you. You're on the FBI's most-wanted list, but we're not the Bureau if that's who you're worried about. We're private contractors who only want—"

"You're bounty hunters?" she hissed, struggling and kicking as if she could get away. Which wasn't likely.

Ev wasn't much older than Bremmer, but she had police training and experience on her side. She knew precisely where to exert pressure. Her knee in the small of Bremmer's back instantly ended the fight. "Nope. Not even close," she said as she rolled Bremmer over and jerked her up onto her knees. "But right now, we're the best chance you've got at staying alive. You didn't set that explosion, did you?"

That right there was the perfectly worded question. It offered Bremmer a way out, even as it stated her crime and her dilemma. The starch went out of her. She stopped resisting and swallowed hard, her chest heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. "No, I don't know how to do stuff like that. Even if I did, I wouldn't have blown up my own house. What good would that do?"

Which begged the question: Who did? And did she know how to set fire to her flesh-and-blood children while they slept? Did she know how to taser a stupid old man just because he fell in love with her, file fraudulent insurance claims, or make a buck off the deaths of others?

Everlee waved Shane away like she didn't need help. Which was true. With an unladylike grunt, she lifted to her feet, and, while keeping a hand on the flex cuffs now behind Bremmer's back, she hoisted their prisoner off her knees.

"I didn't know my house was going to blow up, and I don't know for sure who did it."

Everlee scoffed. "And yet here you are, in disguise pretending to be a reporter while your alleged home burns to the ground. Is it a coincidence that you just happened to have a trench coat and a mic handy? I doubt it."

Bremmer's eyes darted up and down the street. Everyone and everything at her home's end of the block was cast in an orange glow against the dark night's shadows. She kept licking her lips, a sure sign she was nervous, but not a sign of innocence. "I had to be ready. Some guy's been following me. He's built like a weightlifter, and every time I've seen him, he's been in a black suit and black dress shoes. I don't know what he wants, but he looks like he's from the mob. I suspected he'd flush me out eventually, so I kept a go-bag in my car, just in case. That's why the coat and mic, but now you guys blew my cover, and he'll—"

"Who?" Shane asked.

She bit her lip. "I don't know. I haven't gotten close enough to see his face. He's always wearing dark glasses, and I think he even called me once. It was weird, that voice on the phone. If it was him. Kind of robotic."

"What'd he say?"

"That I can run but I can't hide. Isn't that cliché? Sounded like something straight out of some cheap gangster movie. I laughed but only so he'd think he didn't scare me. But he did." Bremmer shivered so hard it sent her hair ruffling over her shoulders in a soft, foamy wave. "Never mind. You don't believe me, and why should you? I'm nobody. My house is gone. So's everything I own. I've got nothing."

Which was an outright lie. She had the insurance money from her first kill and possibly from the second. Which made Shane wonder about her parents' allegedly fatal accident. Had she had something to do with that? Was she covering for someone else? Did she have a partner? That'd explain a lot.

"Are you armed?" Shane asked as he took hold of her left arm while Everlee took her right.

"Not with anything that'll hurt us," Everlee snorted. She glanced at Shane when she said that. Where Bremmer seemed fragile, helpless, and acted as if she were in over her head, Ev was decisive and capable, her body fit and toned. She'd taken Bremmer down with a damned good running tackle, evidence she'd kept in shape despite her sprained ankles. The message in her big, brown eyes was clear: Don't trust anything Bremmer says.

He nodded a curt but unnecessary message received. A person didn't need guns or knives to kill. Bremmer's weapons of choice, if she truly was a black widow, were seduction, sex, deceit, and disguise. Ev wanted him to remember that. Like he'd forget?

With her P365 Nitron Micro still in her right hand, Everlee set a course away from the burning house. Shane had no idea why she'd opted for the longer, scenic route. Their ruined rental car was behind them and their gear bags were getting farther away with each step. The police had his pistols and the EMTs had his holster. Only weapon he had left was the knife in his boot sheath and three useless magazines in his pockets.

"Our car's back that way," he reminded her.

"No worries. I've got us covered, but if Bremmer's telling the truth—"

"Tuesday Smart," Ms. Bremmer interrupted, still looking over her shoulder with every other step away from her burning home. "Please. My maiden name's Smart. I don't know who Tuesday Bremmer is, but I'm not her. I'm Tuesday Smart. That's the name on my birth certificate, check if you want. You'll see. I was named after my mom's sister, and my parents called me Tuesday. Just Tuesday. Please. At least call me by my real name."

"Why not Ms. Lamb?" Everlee asked testily. "Or isn't that your name, either?"

"B-because…" Their prisoner sucked in a shuddering breath. "That's not who I am anymore. After Freddy died, I went back to my maiden name. I'm just Tuesday Smart now."

Shane froze at the tremor of real terror in her voice. He knew fear when he heard it, and this woman was a walking, quivering mess of it. At least she was playing the part well. Her parents were both dead, and right then, Ms. Bremmer, err, Ms. Smart sounded more like a frightened little girl than a savvy killer on the run. Was she him all over again, a victim of circumstances that had forced her to make decisions that may or may not've been in her best interest? Like marrying a guy forty-two years her senior. Like Shane joining the Corps too soon after his mother's funeral. He should've waited that one recommended year before he'd dumped his old life and enlisted. Ms. Smart had only been seventeen when she'd married Lamb. Had she simply hooked up with an older man who—

She. Murdered. Her. Kids.

Allegedly.

Shane shook off the sensual allure of the femme fatale at his hand. But despite the fact that he'd read Ms. Bremmer's complete file, he still wasn't sure what he knew. Was it possible for a kid who'd done as well in high school as she had to turn into a cold-blooded killer overnight? Yeah, sure. Maybe. Her life had been turned upside-down, and who knew what emotional distress she'd gone through when she'd lost her mom and dad?

Shane. That's who. He'd been there, done something just as impetuous, just as foolish. Had the drab, OD-green, USMC t-shirt to prove how easily grief messed with a young, inexperienced kid's head and forced him—or her—into making crazy decisions. But that didn't explain why she'd killed an old man, her second husband, or her kids. Just for insurance payouts?

"If you're telling the truth, Ms. Smart" — Ev added enough sarcasm to that title to choke a horse — "and if someone really did blow up your house to flush you out… and if you're not Tuesday Bremmer and are innocent of killing whoever was in your house tonight…"

Ms. Smart stumbled, then stopped walking altogether. "Someone was in my house? They're d-dead?"

Shane had to give her credit. Bremmer was believable. She had that surprised but innocent routine down pat.

"Yup, saw the charred body with my own eyes. Looked like you bagged another male, judging by how tall it was." Everlee kept dishing out the bad cop routine.

"But I… I told you. I haven't killed anyone. I didn't do any of it. I… I…"

"Yup, that's what they all say."

Shane jumped in with, "If you know who did, give us a name so we can help you."

Before Ms. Smart could answer, Ev ordered, "Later. Let's walk a little faster, people. Oh, look. A dark alley. We're taking it. You still got your phone, Shane?"

He slapped a hand over his rear pocket. "I do."

"Good. Call us a cab. If they can't get here in five minutes, call an Uber. We need to be gone before the police start looking for us. We'll talk more later."

"You are going to tell me what's going on, right?" he asked, his fingertip already on his Google Search app.

"Safe house, Shane. Alex said take Ms. Brem, oops, I mean, Ms. Smart " —heavy on the sarcasm— "some place where no one can find her. He's got a safe house nearby. Let's wait until then to ask more questions."

"Copy that," he replied. Shane had their next ride ordered in seconds, and the cab pulled up within the allotted time. Once they climbed in, Everlee directed the female driver to take them to the nearest convenience store, which ended up being less than five blocks due east of what was left of Smart's, aka Bremmer's, home. Once in the parking lot, they all climbed out, and Shane took his jeans with him.

Ev paid the cabbie, and as soon as the car was out of sight, she told him, "Now get us an Uber. We want someone here pronto."

He nodded like the good troop he was. While Shane tapped their location into the Uber app, then waited outside with Ms. Smart for their ride, Ev ran into the store and came back out with two bags. "Kill your phone, Shane. You too, Ms. Smart ," she ordered, dropping hers to the asphalt parking lot and stomping her boot heel onto it, grinding it to pieces.

"Why can't you guys just call me Tuesday?" Ms. Smart whined.

"Because you're not our friend," Shane said clearly. "You're our prisoner, and we don't call wanted criminals by their first names."

"And this isn't a game," Everlee bit out as she handed a plastic-encased cell phone to Shane. "I've got two burners, one for me, one for you. Wait a sec, I bought something that'll cut through all that plastic security shit." She stuck her hand into the bag and pulled up a retractable utility knife. "Here. Use this. We'll get a couple more burners once we're at the safe house."

Everlee didn't give Ms. Smart a phone, but she did use the knife to remove the flex cuffs behind her back. After she shook her hands and scrubbed both hands up her biceps, Ms. Smart complied without argument, probably because of the pistol once again in Everlee's right hand.

She tugged a cell phone in a rhinestone-crusted case out of her trench coat pocket and dropped it on the ground. When she did, her long hair fell over her face like a tumbling waterfall of darker browns and golden blondes. Shane couldn't help but notice. Who could miss the way the parking lot lights caught that ultra-feminine move? Tuesday was a slender, good-looking woman, and all that hair looked sleek, soft, and touchable. It was no wonder she attracted husbands as quickly as she had. Ms. Smart was walking, talking, maybe stalking, sex on two long legs. Tempting.

Shane shook off the tender feelings for the woman growing in the back of his mind. He had to remember that she was nothing more than a killer. A pretty predator, but, in her case, with the evidence stacked against her, guilty until proven innocent. He'd seen the security footage. She had locked her husband and children inside a burning apartment. She had walked away while her kids cried for their mama. That alone was damned heartrending proof. Didn't matter how she looked. She couldn't be anything but guilty. Yeah, she might get off on a technicality—heaven forbid—but right here and now, he was the long arm of the FBI law, and he'd take her down by whatever means were necessary.

She seemed calmer since they'd left her burning home behind. But she was so damned small, almost fragile, more like a frightened rabbit caught in a snare, than a conniving black widow spider who spun webs of lies to catch gullible men.

Which he was not. Shane didn't trust Bremmer, err, Tuesday Smart, just because she was easy on the eyes and seemed so much younger than her twenty-five years. For all he knew, she could've been one of those nasty mean girls all high schools groomed to take over the world. Personality traits like that didn't just vanish overnight.

He'd seen the innocent, femme fatale act before, and that day still gave him nightmares. The black widow then had been a pretty, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in a blue burka, holding what Shane now knew had been a two-year-old little girl on her hip. A child who never would've lived to see her third birthday if Shane hadn't been in the same busy Afghanistan hotel lobby. All because her radicalized mother was wearing enough Semtex underneath that burka to blow herself, her daughter, and half the hotel to kingdom come. It was where American contractors often stayed. She'd been sent to kill as many of them as she could.

She'd failed, and her sweet daughter was still alive somewhere, but only because Shane had sent her pretty, "Infidel!" screaming mother to her eternal reward with a precisely placed double-tap.

He always wondered what eternal reward Muslim women received after orchestrating their own martyrdom and murdering their babies. Zealous Muslim males who waged war against alleged enemies of Islam were rewarded in the afterlife with seventy-two virgins. What did mothers get out of sacrificing their children in the name of Allah? Besides dead? What on earth could possibly be worth that kind of sacrifice?

Damned if Shane knew, but he was going to Google that one of these days, maybe when he actually gave a shit. The heinous crimes committed in the name of Jesus Christ and Allah were the real sins. Those truly used the Lord's name—or names—in vain.

When the Uber driver rolled into the parking lot in a silver Toyota Camry sedan, Smart's head came up. She'd caught Shane studying her. He turned toward Everlee to catch his balance. He wasn't looking for love in all the wrong places, and he wasn't dumb. There was just something about Ms. Smart that sparked the protective instinct in him. That had to stop.

"I don't have shoes," she said softly, bringing his attention back to her. Her eyes seemed bigger and sadder than they'd been before. They were red-rimmed, her eyelids swollen, and there was a good-sized scrape on her chin, probably from when Everlee took her down. "Would you mind stomping my phone for me? I don't want anyone to find me, not ever again."

See? Right there? She said the right words, but was that softly spoken, innocent-sounding plea just a bait-and-hook tactic to get him on her side? Did she see him as just another mark to manipulate, or was she sincere? Shane wasn't sure, and he didn't want to care. Ms. Smart was a job. Just a job. He didn't have to like her to get her safely back to DC.

But he did care, and that was a problem. He was beginning to like Tuesday Smart. God bless him if she really was the child-killer, Tuesday Bremmer.

"Sure." He replied gruffly to reinforce his indifference. "I'll take care of it." Letting his cell fall to the ground beside hers, he mashed both in a boot crunch of shattered plastic, lost contact lists, and photos. That hurt more than he'd expected. He should've removed his SD card first, damn it. Oh, well. He had the Cloud. Guess he'd have to learn how to use it.

He opened the rear door of the sedan and, like a gentleman, gestured for Ms. Smart to climb inside. She'd no more than ducked her head like an obedient child to enter the car, when a white boat of a 1970 Lincoln Continental careened around the corner on two wheels, tires squealing, and streaming black smoke behind it. Someone in the car yelled a mouthful of blistering, racist profanities. Two AKs bristled from the front and rear side windows. Thunder and death spewed across the parking lot in crystal sharp rat-a-tat-tats.

Ms. Smart stood frozen in shock. "He found me! See? Just like I said he would!"

Shane dove for her, flattening her to the asphalt beside the sedan. He covered her quivering body with his. Made sure no part of her was left exposed. He was big enough. Greater body mass. He could take a hit and probably live through it. She couldn't.

Another flurry of bullets blistered the storefront. Plate-glass windows shattered. An alarm screamed from inside the store. More random shots kicked up dust and concrete shards. The screaming profanity continued. Nothing definitive. Nothing that singled Ms. Smart out. Just random, "Die motherfucker!" and other senseless crap.

The Uber driver took off like his pants were on fire. Smart man. But that left Shane and Ms. Smart in the open. Even Everlee had left them. Like a maniac, she was chasing after the damned Lincoln, returning fire with practiced skill. She hit the car. The rear window shattered, and she might have hit one of the punks inside. But the Lincoln didn't slow down.

"He's going to kill me," Ms. Smart whimpered, her body racked with hiccups and sobs. "You have to believe me, Agent Hayes. He wants me dead, but I don't know why. I don't even know who he is."

Out in the street, Everlee dropped one empty magazine and slapped another home without taking her eyes off the fleeing vehicle or missing a beat. Shane was smitten all over again. But not with the one whimpering in his arms. Nah. His heartbeat raced for the one in the street swearing a blue streak at the asshats who'd gotten away. The spunky woman who so obviously had his six. The bossy, gutsy one. Everlee was definitely something else. And the way she handled her piece? Sexy as hell. There was just something about a woman who knew how to handle firearms and swear. The vicious Jiminy Christmases she was flinging at the gangbangers were cute as hell.

But he still had a job to do. He palmed the back of Ms. Smart's head and forced her to stay flat against the still warm-enough-to-fry-an-egg asphalt beneath them. Less chance of a body getting hit that way. Less elevated body mass meant less of a target if those gangsters circled back. And him without his pistols.

Heat radiated into his kneecaps as he crouched protectively over Ms. Smart. She was damned small and trembling and crying, and shit. He couldn't help it. She was still a woman, and he was an idiot. Shane rolled to his side and pulled her into his arms, putting her back to his front, and his back to the street, making him the bigger target. Her head fell against his biceps, and stupid caveman that he was, he put his cheek next to hers and whispered, "Shush. No one can get to you while I'm here."

She shifted around until she faced him. "B-but you believe me, don't you?"

Her stammering nearly did him in. Damn, as smart as he was, she might just be smarter. "Not my job to believe or disbelieve you, ma'am," he told her with as much indifference as he could muster. Which wasn't much at the moment. "My job is just taking you back to DC and turning you over to the FBI."

Her lower lip quivered. It took her a minute to settle under his chin. He felt the soft flutter of her eyelashes like frightened butterflies on his neck. Her breath was warm over his skin and she smelled of feminine sweat and breath mints. As much as he knew this was one helluva stupid mistake, Shane wanted her there now that the immediate danger was past. He could and would keep her safe, damn it. This—she— was his sole purpose, and all he was doing was his job. Tuesday Smart, Bremmer, whatever, was mission one.

"He said he'll kill me," she whined, her fingers knotted into the front of his polo and her heart pounding hard. He could feel each hammering beat through the soft, plump breasts pushing against his chest. It truly felt as if she were trying to crawl inside of him to hide.

God, if she'd only be honest, just once. "Who?"

"The guy who called me. The guy I told you about, the one with the robot voice."

"Whoever he is, he can't get to you while I'm here," Shane assured her gruffly. He'd meant to include Everlee when he said, ‘while we're here,' instead of just ‘while I'm here.' But he'd said the first thing that popped into his dumb head and, unfortunately, it ended up making this interaction sound more personal than businesslike. And too damned kind. Apparently, his big brain wasn't in sync with his little brain. In another time and place, this position with a woman could've led to a night of sex and pleasure. Yeah, right. In another time and place, the woman in his arms wouldn't have been a murderer.

There was no way to know if that drive-by shooting had even been meant for Ms. Smart. It could've been a warning or a payback aimed at the convenience store owner. Or just the neighborhood gangsters flexing their muscles to prove how tough they were. By then, sirens were again headed in their direction.

"We need to move. Now, big guy. Get up," Everlee snapped at Shane.

"Copy that." He pulled Ms. Smart to her feet as he stood. "We should talk to the police first. Alex will under—"

"Nope," Everlee bit out. "Not talking to the police. Tonight we just do what Alex said. Follow me."

Well, okay then. She seemed to think she was in charge. Who was he to disagree?

She waved them around the convenience store, past a row of Dumpsters. The stink casting off them reminded him of the obnoxious scents that hit a guy's nose the second he stepped off the tailgate of the C-130 that dropped him in Afghanistan. Nothing quite like the nose-curdling sting of raw sewerage, rotted animal carcasses, and week-old wet garbage to bring on a guy's gag reflex.

Shane ran alongside Everlee but kept Ms. Smart sandwiched between them. Into the night. Away from the police. Away from whoever was gunning for her. Two blocks down, Everlee stopped beside a full-size, rusted pick-up truck that had seen better days. Without a word, she reached into one of the bags from the convenience store and pulled out three pairs of knitted gloves. "One for you, Ms. Smart. One for you, Shane. Put them on. We leave no fingerprints. Ever. Understood?" She looked directly at Smart when she said that.

Tuesday's head bobbed. Everyone put their gloves on. Everlee climbed up into the driver's seat, which was a sight all by itself. She was much shorter than Ms. Smart, and there were no running boards. But Everlee was limber, and Shane had a feeling she'd never ask for a boost up. She was one of those independent women. Good to know. He made a mental note to never hold the door for her again.

With a hand gripping the armrest built into the door, her other hand clutching the lower part of the doorframe, she hoisted herself off the ground like a gymnast and plopped her backside in the driver's seat.

"I could've helped you, you know," Shane told her.

"I don't need any help," she shot back at him.

Again, good to know. He'd pegged her right.

Everlee flipped the visor down and keys fell into her lap. She turned to Shane with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Why are you guys still standing out there? The keys were where I thought they'd be. Get in. We've got to keep moving."

Once again, Shane did as he was told. He held Ms. Smart's elbow while they walked to the passenger side, but ended up having to lift her onto the seat. As before, he had her in his arms, up close and personal. It was hard not to notice how delicately she was built and how small-boned she was. How tiny her waist was. That she weighed next to nothing. That her hair smelled like powdery roses, and somewhere along the way, she'd stubbed the big toe on her right foot, and it was bleeding. But she hadn't pitched a fit, hadn't even complained or drawn attention to herself.

Very interesting.

There was no console in the old truck, just a long bench seat. Smart scooted all the way over, closer to Everlee, lifted her left leg over the stick shift, then turned to Shane and patted the empty space beside her.

As much as he wanted to keep her in the guilty-until-proven-innocent column, Shane was beginning to like Tuesday Smart—a lot. Maybe there was something else going on. Maybe she hadn't killed anyone.

Yeah, right. Not only no, but hell to the no. Security tapes didn't lie, gawddamnit. Neither did his eyes. He knew what he'd seen on that video clip. She had killed her kids and her last husband. Her legal name was Tuesday Bremmer, per the marriage certificate to Atchison Bremmer on file in the New York borough of Manhattan registrar's office. If she'd switched back to her maiden name, she hadn't done it legally. But she was an arsonist and a killer.

"Hang on to your asses," Everlee ordered.

And he knew without a doubt that former LT Yeager was bossy.

Shane climbed up beside Ms. Smart and away they went.