56. Evie
EVIE
Ichange cars twice.
Jackets once.
I leave my phone in the trunk of a taxi heading toward Baltimore.
And still, I know they’re following me.
Not because I can see them.
Because I can’t.
The men Graves sent are too disciplined to drive close, stare too long, or make obvious mistakes.
But I’ve spent years studying patterns.
A dark SUV appearing three times in forty minutes isn’t a coincidence.
Neither is the silver sedan that takes its place after I cross into Alexandria.
I pull the borrowed car into the underground garage beneath my old apartment building.
Borrowed is generous.
The young man who left it running outside the convenience store will report it stolen as soon as he notices it’s gone.
I’m hoping Graves notices first.
The garage smells like oil, damp concrete, and rainwater. Overhead lights flicker, leaving deep pools of shadow between the parked vehicles.
I park near the back wall and kill the engine.
For several seconds, I don’t move.
My hand rests on the pistol beneath my coat.
I was trained for fieldwork before I became an analyst.
I know how to shoot.
How to detect surveillance.
How to hurt someone badly enough to escape.
But I’m not Shadow Division.
If Graves’s people find me, they won’t drag me back to Langley for questioning. They’ll put a bullet in my skull and leave evidence proving I was a foreign asset.
By morning, every person who ever knew me will believe I betrayed my country.
My fingers tighten around the pistol.
I open the car door.
The soft sound echoes through the garage.
Rainwater drips from my coat as I step out and sling my bag over my shoulder.
The copy of the recording is still inside it.
The original card is sewn into the lining of my coat.
Two chances.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
A shadow moves near the far stairwell.
I draw my pistol.
A man steps from behind a concrete pillar.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark jacket.
His hands are empty, but that doesn’t mean he’s unarmed.
He moves with a stillness that immediately identifies him as dangerous. Not restless. Not aggressive.
Patient.
The kind of man who can wait for hours without moving and then end a life between heartbeats.
I aim at the center of his chest.
“Stop.”
He stops.
His gaze drops briefly to my pistol before returning to my face.
He doesn’t look surprised.
Or afraid.
He looks exhausted.
Like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Evelyn Hart.”
His voice is low and controlled.
“Who are you?”
“Caleb McDougal.”
My breath catches.
Sniper.
The man from the classified reports.
The man Graves dismissed as a weapon.
He doesn’t look like a weapon.
Weapons are inanimate.
This man is watching everything—the mirrors on the parked cars, the stairwell behind me, the flickering lights, the dark ramp leading to the street.
“You’re late,” I say.
One corner of his mouth almost moves.
Almost.
“I had to make sure no one followed me.”
“And?”
His gaze shifts to the convex security mirror above my head.
“They did.”
My stomach drops.
Caleb’s expression changes.
His eyes sharpen.
“Get down.”
The first shot strikes the pillar beside my head.
Concrete explodes across my face.
I hit the ground as a second bullet punches through the windshield of the car behind me.
Caleb moves faster than I believed a man his size could move.
One moment he’s ten feet away.
The next, his arm is around my waist, dragging me behind a parked SUV.
A third shot cracks through the garage.
The passenger window above us shatters.
I cover my head as broken glass rains over Caleb’s shoulders.
He pushes me low against the concrete and shields me with his body.
His breath is warm against my ear.
“Three shooters.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Different positions. Different weapons.”
A bullet slams into the SUV.
Metal screams above us.
Caleb doesn’t flinch.
His hands are steady. His breathing is even. His eyes remain fixed on reflections in the broken glass scattered across the floor.
The reports called him one of the most gifted snipers in modern special operations.
They didn’t explain what that meant.
He sees the world differently.
Every sound is information.
Every shadow is a warning.
Every angle is either an escape or a place someone can die.
“Can you run?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Another bullet punches through the vehicle’s rear quarter panel.
Caleb reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a cylindrical device.
“What is that?”
“An interruption.”
He tosses it beneath a truck on the opposite side of the garage.
The explosion produces a burst of white light and a deafening crack.
The shooters curse.
Caleb grabs my hand.
“Now.”
We run.
Not toward the stairs.
Toward a narrow service door half-concealed behind rusted storage cages.
Caleb fires twice behind us without slowing.
Someone shouts.
I stumble over a parking barrier.
His arm locks around my waist, keeping me upright.
He doesn’t release me.
The service door bursts open beneath his shoulder.
Cold rain strikes my face as we race into the alley.
A black SUV waits at the curb.
The driver’s seat is empty.
I glance at Caleb. “You planned this?”
“I plan everything.”
For the first time since I heard Graves’s voice in that underground corridor, I almost smile.
Another shot strikes the brick wall beside us.
Caleb throws open the passenger door and shoves me across the console. Then he climbs behind the wheel and slams the SUV into gear.
The tires spin on the wet pavement.
A man appears at the mouth of the alley and raises a rifle.
Caleb drives directly at him.
The shooter jumps aside before the SUV reaches him.
Caleb swings onto the street and accelerates into traffic.
I twist around in my seat.
The garage disappears behind us.
No dark SUV follows.
Not yet.
I face forward and notice blood on Caleb’s hand.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Glass.”
“You should let me look at it.”
“Later.”
“That’s what men say when they don’t want anyone to discover they’re hurt.”
He glances at me.
“You say that from experience?”
“Extensive experience.”
Something changes in his eyes.
Not amusement exactly.
Awareness.
The same awareness tightening beneath my ribs.
This man came into a kill zone for me.
A woman he had never met.
“You came,” I say.
His attention returns to the road. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked for help.”
No one has ever given me an answer that simple.
Or one that affected me this deeply.
I look out the window before he sees it.
Washington vanishes behind a curtain of rain.
Caleb takes three turns in rapid succession, enters an underground tunnel, and changes lanes twice before exiting on the opposite side.
Only then does he speak again.
“Whatever you heard, whatever proof you have, we’re going to get it out.”
“And if they find us?”
His expression goes cold.
“Then they’ll learn why they should have left you alone.”
My phone is gone.
My identity is compromised.
The agency I served wants me dead.
I should feel alone.
Instead, I watch Caleb McDougal scan the mirrors, and for the first time since leaving Langley, I believe I might survive the night.
Then headlights appear behind us.
One vehicle.
Then two.
Caleb looks into the mirror.
His jaw tightens.
“They found us.”
Continue reading SILENT TARGET—Shadow Division, Book Two.