Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cici’s legs burned, her soaked sneakers squishing with every step through the woods. She longed for her suitcase, probably burned to a crisp back in the barn. Not that she would have been able to haul it through the woods, but she could sure use a pair of dry socks.
Her purse slid off her shoulder, and for the ten-thousandth time, she hiked it back up.
Eyeing the pack slung on Asher’s back, she considered asking him to shove her purse in there with his things.
But the necklace and all the jewelry she’d stolen were her responsibility.
Besides, Asher’s duffel was already bulging at the zipper.
Exhausted as she was, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny spark of pride in her chest. Asher had agreed to her library idea. She’d contributed something that might help get them out of this nightmare.
And there’d been that moment in the woods near the burning barn, when she’d hit that thug with a branch. She’d heard the ruckus and known she’d needed to help. But how? The guy had been huge.
She’d searched frantically until she’d found the limb, then swung it like a baseball bat.
Not that she’d ever been much of a ball player, but they used to play at family gatherings, Wright brothers and Wright sisters combining to create two teams. Her swing might not have hit the ball into the orchard at Uncle Roger and Aunt Peggy’s house—an automatic home run—but it had been good enough to knock the guy over.
The shock on Asher’s face, his blue eyes wide, his mouth open, had been worth the sting in her palms.
If not for her, he might not have survived that moment. Cici wasn’t just a liability. She could contribute.
Even he’d admitted she wasn’t helpless, and she’d never confess to a soul how much those words meant to her.
The forest hummed with life—birds chirping, leaves rustling—but the distant roar of traffic cut through. They’d trudged in underbrush for hours, sticks snapping underfoot, when a two-lane highway came into view through the trees, a busy stretch of asphalt alive with cars.
“Civilization,” she said. “Thank God.”
“Stay low,” Asher muttered, his voice all business. He didn’t head for the road but walked parallel to it, out of sight of passersby.
She was too tired to argue. Her morning runs and yoga had not prepared her for this.
They’d been paralleling the road for about twenty minutes when a sign appeared ahead.
It was a convenience store, the kind that carried a good selection of groceries.
Its parking lot was a patchwork of sedans, SUVs, and a lone motorcycle.
None of the vehicles looked familiar. No beige sedan or green pickup. Surely they’d be safe there.
It felt like gasoline-scented salvation.
She was about to ask—maybe beg—that they go to the store when Asher stopped and gazed across the street.
He watched the lot and door for what felt like hours.
The man was vigilant, she’d give him that.
Finally, he muttered, “Keep your head down,” and led the way to the edge of the highway and, at a break in traffic, to the other side.
Cici gaze toward the ground to keep her face from being picked up by strangers or security cameras.
When they stepped inside, the bell above the door jingled. The cool air and scents of coffee and baked goods were sweet relief.
Even more so, the Western Union sign above the clerk.
Asher moved into the aisles quickly. He grabbed a handful of burner phones, a baseball cap, a couple of protein bars, and two bottles of water.
Cici’s eyes landed on an end cap—Crocs, flimsy but dry, and packages of socks.
She raised a thank-You to her Provider, who’d obviously known exactly what she’d need.
The only pair in her size was pink. They didn’t exactly coordinate with her outfit, but she snatched them up, along with a cozy pair of white socks.
Asher paid in cash while Cici kept her gaze on the scuffed linoleum, her pulse thudding.
What if those men—the bald guard, the smooth talker—parked outside?
Somehow, their pursuers had managed to locate them over and over.
And they wouldn’t have gone far from that burning barn, knowing Cici and Asher had escaped on foot.
They were probably patrolling the narrow highway, looking for them.
What if they stopped here for a snack? What if they walked in?
But the bell didn’t jingle once before the clerk handed over a plastic bag.
Asher led the way to the door, which he held open for her. They slipped out and ducked into the woods behind the store.
Beneath a canopy of pines far enough from the road that the traffic was barely background noise, Asher plopped down and tore into the burner phone’s packaging. “No library needed now.” He didn’t look at her. “This’ll do.”
Cici peeled off her soggy sneakers, wincing when the damp socks clung to her blisters.
She let her feet dry in the warm air before covering them with Band-Aids Asher had found in his pack and then gingerly pulling on the new socks and shoes.
Godsends both, even if the Crocs looked like bubblegum had thrown up on her feet.
“Why don’t I reach out to my dad?” She stuffed her wet items in the plastic bag, then tried to get the bag in her bulging purse, voicing a question that had been humming in the back of her mind since she’d seen that sign in the store. “He could wire us money.”
Asher took her plastic bags and somehow made room for her wet shoes and socks in his bag. “Your dad’s phone could be tracked.”
“Please.” She didn’t temper the exasperation in her voice. “Do you know who my dad is? Former CIA, runs a defense contracting empire, security clearance right up there with that of the Joint Chiefs? His phone’s so secure that even he can barely get into it.”
Asher’s ice-blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The black rims did nothing to temper the man’s attractiveness. If anything, they added to it, making him look studious and buff, like a sexy professor.
Stop that.
She braced for an argument, but he exhaled. “Okay. But no texts—calls only. Texts are too easy to intercept.”
Not that she wanted to talk to her father, but at this point, she’d take his raised voice and disappointment if it meant not having to walk a hundred soggy miles from Massachusetts to Maine.
Asher handed over the cell phone, which he’d plugged into his portable charger and activated, and she dialed her father’s number, her stomach knotting as it rang.
When he answered, she said, “Dad, it’s Ci—”
“Cecelia!” His voice was whip-crack sharp. “Where in God’s name are you? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m fine, Dad.” Not that he’d asked. His tone made her feel like a kid caught sneaking in after curfew. “I’ve been…dealing with some stuff.”
“Some stuff?” His voice rose, and she could picture him pacing his home office, his hands balled into fists. “The police called looking for you. You’re wanted in connection with a murder.”
“I know, it’s just—”
“Your mother is losing her mind. She deserves better than this. And so do I.”
“Dad, just let me explain.”
“No need.” He took a breath but continued before she could get a word in. “I talked to Forbes and Brooklynn. I know about the necklace. The point is, you should have called me right away. Surely you don’t think you can handle this on your own?”
The words stung. Of course he didn’t believe her to be competent. He never had. “I’m with a bodyguard. We’re okay, but we need help.”
“I want to know exactly what happened, from the beginning.”
She spilled the story—Mr. D’s murder, the necklace, the men chasing them. The train, the stolen car, the safe house. And then today, their attempt to get to the airfield, eluding enemies yet again, the barn fire, and the long trek through the woods.
No wonder he didn’t trust her to take care of herself. The more she talked, the more she realized what a huge mess she was in.
She couldn’t help the tears that fell and averted her gaze from Asher, who was too close not to have noticed. At least she managed to keep emotion from seeping into her voice. Tears would not endear her father to her. He’d been immune to his girls’ tears as long as she could remember.
Dad listened, his silence heavy.
She finished the story with her reason for calling. “We’re low on cash, and we can’t use our credit cards. I’m hoping you can wire me some money.” She gave him the information for the Western Union. “I’ll pay you back.”
“You think I care about that? I’m sending someone to get you.”
Asher bumped her shoulder, and she quickly swiped her tears and looked at him. Though she hadn’t put the call on speaker, Dad’s voice was loud enough that Asher had probably heard his every word. “Tell him we’ll call back with a location once we have the money. We need to move.”
He was agreeing to have Dad send a car? There was a surprise.
“That was him?” Dad asked. “The bodyguard? What’s his name?”
“Asher Rhodes. He works for the same company Grant worked for. I don’t know if you remember Asher’s family, but he grew up in Shadow Cove.”
Asher’s jaw clenched as if she’d said something wrong. He looked away.
“Rhodes?” Dad said. “Yeah, I remember them. He went into the military, right?”
She looked toward Asher, but he was staring through the trees toward the highway. “He was a SEAL.”
“Good, good. Tell me where to wire the money. You stick with Rhodes, you hear me? Rhodes, if you can hear me, you keep my daughter safe or you’ll answer to me.”
Asher held out his hand for the phone.
“He wants to talk to you, Dad. Hold on.” She gave it to Asher.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Asher said. “Meanwhile, you need to do something for me.”
Cici cringed. Dad wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from anybody. But Asher didn’t seem to care.
“Tell Ballentine—in person—that I believe he has a mole in his operation.”
“How do you know that?” Dad’s voice was easy to make out.
“They were waiting for us near the airfield,” Asher said. “There’s no way they could’ve guessed that.”