Chapter 9
Nine
Istare at the gun pointed at my chest and feel a strange sense of déjà vu. Though I suppose that's for things you only feel happened before but didn't.
"Pull a gun on me once, shame on you. Pull a gun on me twice, shame on me, I guess," I deadpan, voice steady despite standing here in nothing but a towel.
Naomi's eyes are hard, calculating. Different from the desperate woman in the woods. This is someone who's had time to think.
"I thought about leaving. I was waiting for you to get me clothing. I have weapons. A vehicle with what I would guess is an untraceable license plate. But I need to know. Who are you?"
Fair question. I nod slowly. "Can I get dressed first?"
She gives a tight nod. "But here. And slow."
I hold up my hands, palms forward. No sudden movements.
As I grab my boxer briefs from the stack of clean clothes, I don't miss how her eyes travel down my chest, lingering on the scars crisscrossing my torso, then lower to my six-pack.
There is a slight widening of her pupils and the almost imperceptible catch in her breathing.
She doesn't hate what she sees.
My mind automatically files this tactical information away as a potential weakness.
Then something else inside me tells that tactical part to fuck off.
It's not an advantage. It's just a woman looking at a man she might be attracted to.
Simple human connection. File it away in that dusty part of my psyche, the part that used to enjoy female attention.
I slip the boxer briefs on under the towel, then let it drop. Again, her eyes flicker over me, lower this time, cataloging. I pull on the gray sweatpants and white T-shirt I packed earlier, movements deliberate and smooth.
"Can I sit?" I ask, gesturing to the chair in the corner.
Another nod from Naomi, silent and watchful, the gun never wavering.
I settle into the chair, keeping my hands relaxed on the arms. "What do you want to know?"
Her eyes narrow, studying me with the focus of someone trained to see through lies. "Is Walker your real name?"
I shrug. "Real as any. Been using it for a long time now."
"I believe that you were in the military. But it's more than that, isn't it?"
I nod slowly. "I was a soldier. But a unique kind. A very particular tool that the government didn't like that they had to use."
"Special Forces?"
"Something like that. But more specialized than you can imagine. We were trained to work individually as well as in a team. One man could take down an outpost or a base. Together, we could level a large city."
I watch Naomi absorb what I've told her, her face a mixture of disbelief and dawning comprehension. "I've never heard of anything like this."
"Why would you?" I ask with a slight shrug. No hostility in my tone, just stating facts.
"I'm CIA.”
"Before your time. Maybe not above your pay grade, or below, as the case may be. But outside a handful of guys, no pay grade knew about what we did." I flex my fingers absently to hide the fact that there’s more. What I said is not a lie. But I don’t go into what they did to make us what we were.
I can't bring myself to admit that I'm something less than human now.
And hopefully the Special Forces explanation will cover the speed with which I killed those men and the bear.
I watch Naomi process everything I've told her. Her gun is still in her hand, but it's pointing at the floor now. Progress.
"Why aren't you with them anymore?"
I let out a harsh laugh. "We outlived their stomach for what they made us do. We mutually agreed to go underground. Scatter to the wind and disappear."
Her eyes narrow. "Until I showed up."
"Until you showed up," I confirm, nodding slowly.
She studies me, and I can see her reassessing everything that's happened between us. The pieces fall into place in that sharp mind of hers.
"From the sound of it, you could have overpowered me anytime you wanted," she says, not quite an accusation but close.
I can't help the slight quirk of my lips. "Not anytime. You tie a mean knot."
My weak attempt at humor falls flat. No smile. Instead, her eyes lock onto mine, probing, searching. "You said we're in this together. But there are no witnesses left. And you can clearly disappear if you want to. Why are you helping me?" she asks again, the question hanging far heavier between us.
Because you do things to my heart and body that I didn't think were still possible.
The thought comes unbidden, and I'm grateful I have enough control not to let it show on my face. It's true, though. But that's not an answer I can give her. Not now. Not ever.
Instead, I settle for a version of the truth that doesn't expose quite so much. "Something didn't add up. It was curiosity at first, and then it seemed you needed help. So I helped."
I watch the emotions play across Naomi's face. After a long moment of silence, she speaks.
"I want to believe you," she says, her voice soft but steady.
Something tightens in my chest at her words.
I want her to believe me, too. More than I should.
More than makes sense. I've spent years not caring what anyone thinks of me, and suddenly, this woman's opinion matters more than anything.
I keep my face neutral, saying nothing, letting her work through whatever's going on in her head.
"But what are the odds I stumble on an elite soldier who can help me not only escape but also clear my name?" The question hangs because it’s a very fair point.
I let out a slow breath. "I don't know. One in a million." I meet her eyes directly. "I could say the same about you. You and your story are perfectly designed to flush me out."
"Perfectly designed?" She raises one eyebrow, and that frustratingly tempting ghost of a smile appears on her lips again. The one that makes my heart beat faster than that gun aimed at my chest ever could.
"In a tactical sense." I lean forward in my chair. "Look, all I can promise you is that it wasn't a conspiracy that brought us together. It wasn't a plan of a government agency."
I don't say what else it could be. What other force might have drawn us to each other in the vastness of those Montana woods. The kind of thing I stopped believing in long ago. Fate. Destiny. Words that have no place in the life I've built for myself these past years.
But sitting here, watching this fierce, beautiful, frightened but determined woman weighing whether to trust me with her life, I can almost believe in something beyond random chance.
Almost.
Naomi puts the gun away, and both of us relax our body language. I sigh. “Now it’s your turn. You said you uncovered something. What was it?”
"I'm an analyst for the CIA. I specialize in tracking dark money. And keeping tabs on CIA money that mixes with that dark money."
Makes sense. Her training, her handling of the handgun but not the rifle, and her knowledge of procedures. Not field ops, but someone who knows the inner workings of the agency.
"I was tasked with closing out a balance sheet. Just cross some t’s, dot some i’s.
But there was a line item. A thread. I pulled on it.
" She looks down at her hands, which are clasped tightly together.
"I found large payments, shipments to a place along the border.
" She meets my eyes again. "Money is like a shadow on the wall.
You can't see the crimes themselves, but you can make out what they are by the shadow they cast."
"And what did you find?" I already suspect I won't like the answer.
“Evidence of weapons and drug smuggling.”
“CIA has its fingers in some pretty messed-up pies.”
“I know. But bringing weapons and drugs into the country? Our country? The one we’re supposed to protect?” Naomi shakes her head, looking far away. Her eyes are a little glassy. “I lost my cousin to a fentanyl overdose. Did my agency bring that in? I just couldn’t let it go.”
I nod, understanding. “What did you find?”
"It was what I didn't find," she says, frustration evident in her voice. "It took forever to dig for a name. El Centinela. But it doesn't exist. It must be a government facility, but I don’t know where.”
"But why were you arrested?"
Naomi runs a hand through her damp hair. "They erased whatever clearance I had to look at those books, then charged me with accessing classified material that I didn’t have clearance for. Also made it so it looked like I leaked it to a server that I’ve never accessed."
I frown. "It wasn't classified? I find that hard to believe."
"That's just it," she says, leaning forward, eyes intense.
"I don’t think it was classified because it would have alerted people with clearance to its existence.
They buried it. Made it boring. But the second I started asking questions, they retroactively classified everything I'd touched.
" She stops pacing the small space and approaches me.
"Walker, I need your help. You were a soldier. You fought for this country."
I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes me. "I don’t know what I was fighting for.”
Naomi pauses. She must be thinking about my nightmare, the name I muttered in my restless sleep.
That’s not something I’m ready to talk about.
"I understand," she persists, turning to face me. "I joined the CIA to protect my country. To serve. This—whatever this is—it's not what I signed up for."
That dog don't hunt for me. I stopped believing in countries and causes a long time ago. What I believe in is the reality of what men do in dark places when no one's watching. And that reality is rarely kind.
“I don’t think you do understand, darlin’. The people you’re up against are part of the system. They know the system. And they’ll use it to bury you.”
“Then I need your help even more. Please.” Her voice drops, almost a plea. “If I can’t prove this, I’m a criminal. I need to clear my name. I need my life back. I can’t do this alone.”