Chapter 13
The black SUV Griff found in the bunker's underground garage handled like a Humvee. Exactly what he needed. Bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, and enough horsepower to outrun trouble if necessary. What he hadn't counted on was his passenger's complete inability to sit still.
Sarah had rearranged her laptop setup three times in the first hour, power cords snaking everywhere, turning the passenger side into some kind of mobile command center.
Every few minutes she'd check the side mirror, scan the road behind them, then force herself back to the screen.
Her leg bounced constantly, a nervous energy she couldn't quite contain.
She'd discovered the SUV's sound system and was now subjecting him to what she called "road trip music"—a sugary pop playlist turned up loud enough to drown out her thoughts.
He glanced over at her for the fifth time in twenty minutes.
A shower had done her wonders. That beautiful hair gleamed in the glow from the dash, but she was still wearing the same outfit from yesterday—designer jeans torn at the knee from their escape through the mine, silk blouse stained with dirt, and those ridiculous boots held together with duct tape.
She looked like exactly what she was, someone who'd been running for her life.
Too memorable. Too identifiable. And judging by the way she kept pulling at her clothes, too much of a reminder of what had happened.
He rubbed his temple and blinking hard, the chemical sting still ghosting his vision. "We need to stop."
Sarah's head snapped up from her laptop, immediately scanning the road. "Why? What's wrong? Did you see something?"
"You need clothes."
She looked down at herself, then back at him, some of the tension easing. "I'm fine."
"You look like an extra in a disaster movie."
"Thanks. Really boosting my confidence here." But her voice was too bright, forced cheerful.
"Sorry. I’m trying to say, you look memorable. We need to fix that." He took another curve, watching her grip the door handle. "Remember our deal? This falls into the category of mission safety."
She was quiet for a moment, fingers drumming against her laptop. "Fine. Normal clothes. Blend in. I can do that."
"There's a truck stop about twenty miles ahead. They'll have the basics."
"Truck stop fashion." She attempted a laugh. "My mother would be so proud."
"You want designer, or you want to stay alive?"
The false cheer dropped. "At this point, I’ll take clean. These clothes smell like fear."
Half an hour later, Griff pulled into the Flying J truck stop, parking at the edge of the lot with clear sightlines to all entrances.
In the hours between lunch and dinner, the place was busy enough to provide cover—truckers grabbing coffee, families on road trips, the usual interstate crowd even though they were on secondary roads.
There’d be at least a handful of active security cams, but by the time the people chasing them got the footage, they’d be long gone.
Sarah hadn't moved to get out, her hand frozen on the door handle.
"Hey," he said quietly. "We're okay here. In and out, fifteen minutes max."
"Right. Shopping. Normal activity." She took a breath, squared her shoulders. "Stay close?"
"I'm not letting you out of my sight."
That seemed to help. She climbed out, but he noticed how she positioned herself—back to the SUV, constantly scanning the parking lot. Even her minimal FBI training showing through the fear.
The truck stop's general store was exactly what he'd expected—fluorescent lights, the smell of coffee and diesel, and racks of clothing that prioritized function over form.
Sarah stood frozen at the entrance to the clothing section, her hand unconsciously moving to where her concealed carry would be—if she had one.
A truck driver brushed past her. She flinched, hand coming up defensively before she caught herself.
"I don't even know where to start," she muttered, her voice pitched higher than normal.
Griff noticed her cataloging exits, counting customers. "Breathe. We're secure here."
"Right. Okay. Just... shopping." She grabbed a pair of jeans with rhinestones, her hands trembling slightly. "These have... bedazzling."
"Put them back."
"They're terrible." She was talking too fast. "Memorably terrible. Someone would remember these, right? We don't want memorable. We want invisible. Gray man theory. Blend into the background."
She was spiraling, using analysis to avoid panic. Griff grabbed a basket, gave her something concrete to focus on. "Jeans. T-shirts. Hoodie. Socks. Boots. Simple."
"Simple. I can do simple." She moved to another rack, pulled out plain jeans. "These feel like cardboard."
"They're sturdy."
"They're hideous."
"They won't fall apart when you're running for your life."
That sobered her. She added two pairs to the basket, movements becoming more mechanical, purposeful. Getting through the task.
She moved to the shirts, examining each one with intense focus—the kind of concentration you use when you're trying not to think about larger things.
"This one has a wolf on it," she said, holding up a shirt. Her laugh came out sharp, brittle. "Three wolves, actually. Howling at the moon. My dad would have—" She stopped, her face crumpling before she pulled it back together.
"Sarah."
"I'm fine. Just... my dad loved tacky tourist shirts. Called them conversation starters. Said you could tell a lot about a person by whether they laughed with you or at you about your shirt." She was gripping the fabric too tightly, knuckles white.
"No wolves. Too memorable."
"Right. Invisible." She put it back carefully. "He's been gone ten years. You'd think I'd stop having these moments."
"You don't stop. You just get better at carrying them."
She looked at him then, really looked at him. "Tank?"
"Every day."
She nodded, grabbed plain t-shirts, a flannel, and a hoodie that said 'Wyoming: Forever West.' Her movements were steadier now, shared grief somehow grounding her.
"Boots," Griff reminded her.
The footwear section was limited—work boots or hiking boots. Sarah stared at the options, and he saw her throat work as she swallowed hard.
"They're all so..."
"Practical?"
"I was going to say ugly, but..." She touched her duct-taped designer boots. "These saved my life. Stayed together through the mine, through everything."
"They did their job."
"Yeah." She selected a pair of hiking boots, testing the fit with shaking hands. "These make my feet look enormous."
"They'll keep your ankles stable and your feet dry."
"Romantic." The joke fell flat, her voice catching.
"You want romance or survival?"
"Can't a girl have both?" This time the brittleness in her voice was obvious.
A loud crash from outside—a trucker dropping a ramp—made her jump, automatically moving closer to him. He could see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"You're doing fine," he said quietly.
"I'm buying clothes at a truck stop while professional killers are hunting me. I'm barely keeping it together."
"You're still standing. That's what matters."
She stood, testing the boots. "I look ridiculous."
"You look like someone who won't break an ankle if we have to run."
"Always the optimist." But her hand found his arm, steadying herself.
They grabbed additional essentials—socks, a baseball cap, basic toiletries. Sarah paused at a display of sunglasses, trying on a pair of aviators. Her hands were shaking again.
"Too Top Gun?"
"Too memorable. Get the plain ones."
She switched them out, then caught sight of herself in the security mirror. "I don't even recognize myself."
"That's the point."
Sarah nodded, straightening her shoulders. "Okay then."
At the checkout, the teenage cashier barely looked up from her phone. Griff paid cash, keeping his head down, baseball cap shadowing his face from the cameras. Sarah stood slightly behind him, but he could feel her tension, the way she tracked every person who walked past.
"Can I change here?" she asked the cashier, voice admirably steady.
"Bathroom's in the back."
While Sarah changed, he grabbed coffee and protein bars, keeping one eye on the bathroom door and another on the parking lot.
Her ankle was clearly better, but she’d need ice again soon.
Not at the moment, though. The woman was already beyond over-stimulated.
Griff had the sense that any more input and she’d crack.
A state trooper strolled in. Sarah would have to walk right past him. Griff positioned himself to intercept if needed, but the trooper was only grabbing coffee, laughing with the cashier about something.
Sarah emerged five minutes later, and Griff could see she'd been crying. The kind of breakdown you have in a truck stop bathroom when you realize your old life is actually gone. But she'd pulled herself together, chin up, moving with purpose.
Gone was the polished professional. In her place stood someone who could have been any traveler on any highway—jeans, flannel over t-shirt, baseball cap pulled low, hiking boots. She'd scrubbed off what remained of her makeup, and without it, she looked younger, more vulnerable.
"Better?" she asked.
"Invisible. Perfect."
She dumped her old clothes in the trash, hesitating only when it came to the duct-taped boots.
"They saved my life," she said quietly.
"They did their job. Let them go."
She dropped them in, taking a shuddering breath. "Goodbye, old life."
Back in the SUV, Sarah pulled off the baseball cap the minute he hit the road and ran her fingers through her hair with shaking hands. "That cashier thought we were married."
"What?"
"She assumed. The way you were hovering, buying my clothes.
" Her voice was too bright again, forced cheerful.
"She made a comment about 'my husband' being generous.
I didn't correct her because married couple on a road trip is better cover than 'woman running from assassins with stranger she met two days ago. '"