Out of the Shadows (Tangled Ivy #3) (4 page)

“I’ll be right back,” Devon said.

I anxiously waited for him, the car gradually warming as the sun shone into the front windshield. Yet I still jumped, startled, when he opened the driver’s side door. He handed me a bag.

“Hold this,” he said.

I peered into the plastic bag as Devon pulled out of the lot. “Hair color for men?” I asked, holding up the box.

“Too obvious if I bought hair color for women,” he replied.

There were also a pair of glasses, a comb, a deck of cards, and scissors. I could see where this was going and I tried not to be upset. But I liked my hair. The thought of dyeing and cutting it made me want to cry. Which was ridiculous, even I could see that. Hair grew back. If I were dead, it wouldn’t really matter much what color or length my hair was, now would it?

“The shop assistant said there was a town with a hotel about ten miles down the road,” he said. “We’ll stop there.”

I didn’t say anything as Devon drove, and neither did he. No doubt both of us were too preoccupied wondering what we’d do if stopped by a roadblock. But nothing and no one blocked our path on the two-lane blacktop, and we only passed the occasional car. Soon, Devon was ushering me into probably the worst motel room I’d ever been in.

“Not exactly the Ritz,” he said ruefully. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” I said, eyeing the stained carpet. It really didn’t matter where we were, so long as I was with Devon. Though not being incarcerated was a definite bonus.

He locked the door behind us and drew the drapes closed while I sat gingerly on the bed.

“This place took cash and I used a fake name,” Devon said, digging through the plastic bag. “But I still want to be on the road again soon.”

I eyed the box of hair dye as he ripped it open.

“So . . . you like brunettes? I hope?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

Devon glanced at me. “I like alive,” he said flatly.

Point taken.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

I nodded and stripped off my shirt, wearing only my bra. No sense getting dye on my clothes. Going into the bathroom, I wet my hair, taking one last look at it.

By the time I returned, Devon had pulled out a wobbly chair from the corner and sat it in the middle of the floor. He’d laid a towel on the floor behind the chair and motioned for me to sit.

I took a deep breath as I sat down. “You have to have a license to be a beautician, you know,” I joked, trying not to think about what was going to happen.

“I’ll add it to my list of transgressions.”

A smile tugged at my lips.

“How short?” he asked, and I appreciated him asking.

“Um, I guess we’d better go above the shoulders,” I said. No way was I going to try something super short and spiky. It took a real hairdresser to know how to cut it like that and I didn’t trust Devon. At least, not with my hair.

I winced at the tug on my hair and the snipping sounds, but Devon was quick and a few minutes later, the heavy weight of my hair was considerably lighter. My neck felt weirdly exposed.

“Is it even?” I asked.

“Mostly,” he said.

I turned to look at him, but he just winked. “Kidding. Sorry.”

Glancing down, I saw my hair on the towel and couldn’t repress a sigh.

“It’ll grow back, darling,” Devon said. His fingers brushed under my chin, lifting my gaze to his.

“I know. I’m being stupid,” I said. “Time for the dye, I guess.”

That was harder. And messy. But a couple of hours later, I’d rinsed it out, blown it dry, and stared in the mirror, trying to get used to the “midnight black” Devon had chosen. The color made my eyes stand out and my fair skin was like porcelain ivory.

“What do you think?” I asked Devon, who’d come up behind me.

“I think it’s incredibly difficult to make you look anything short of stunning.”

It was the perfect thing to say to make me feel better.

Devon brandished a pair of glasses. “Put these on.”

The lenses were just glass, not corrective, and the frames were dark. I made a face at myself.

“Not bad,” Devon said. “You look quite different. It should help.”

“Do you think they’re searching for me everywhere in the States? Or just around here?”

“Not only are they searching for you everywhere, they’re enlisting the public to help,” he said. “I must confess, I didn’t think they’d go that far.”

“Can’t the CIA make them stop?” I asked.

“The agencies don’t always share information and sometimes don’t even have the same agenda,” he said. “The CIA’s goal is to help disarm Vega. The FBI doesn’t care about that. They just want you. I’m sure Beau will do what he can, but in the end, the search will go further up the line than he’ll be able to influence.

“We’ll wait until dark, then hit the road again,” he continued.

“Okay.” Key West seemed a long ways away.

Devon left the bathroom while I studied my reflection. I heard the sound of cards being shuffled. Coming out, I saw he’d taken up a spot on the bed and was busy mixing the deck of cards he’d bought.

“A way to pass the time?” I guessed, perching opposite him and crossing my legs underneath me.

“I’d rather have sex, but didn’t think that was a viable option for the entirety of the trip,” he said dryly.

“Well, you’re not exactly twenty-five anymore,” I teased him.

“Twenty-five-year-olds know nothing about sex,” he replied.

“So how old are you anyway?” I asked as he dealt the cards.

“How old do you think I am?”

I studied him, considering. Men only looked better as they aged, and Devon was no exception. The softness of youth had been replaced by a lean strength of character in the line of his jaw and the set of his eyes.

“I’m going to guess . . . thirty-five?”

His lips twitched. “Close enough.”

“So you
are
robbing the cradle,” I said, picking up my cards.

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“Certainly not.” I layered on a so-so copy of his British accent, prompting a full smile from him. “So what are we playing?”

“Texas Holdem,” he said. “Do you know how to play?”

“I know the basics of poker,” I said. “Like Five Card Draw. But not Texas Holdem.”

“Then I’ll teach you.”

We whiled away an hour or two playing various poker games, with Devon teasing me about my poorly done poker face. Finally, after trying to bluff my way through a bad hand, I tossed my cards aside and climbed onto his lap.

“You’re terrible at bluffing,” he said, his soft smile indulgent.

“Maybe I’m fantastic at bluffing, and you’re just really good at reading me,” I countered.

“Possibly.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, my good mood fading as I looked out the window.

“You’re worrying again,” he said, his palm gently rubbing my back.

“And you’re not?”

“One problem at a time, one day at a time, one hour at a time. That’s how you deal with it. Look too far ahead and the obstacles can feel insurmountable. It’s like climbing a mountain. Take it one step at a time.”

“And what about after?” I asked. “If we do make it out of this, what then? Where will we live? How will we live? What will we do?”

Devon rested against the headboard and stretched out his legs, pulling me into a more comfortable position on top of him.

“You tell me,” he said. “I’ve been everywhere. If you had to pick, where would you want to live?”

It was one of those questions people play for games, but this was for real.

“I’ve never thought about it,” I said. “I wanted to get away from home, but I don’t want to go so far away I can’t see my grandparents very often.”

“Please don’t ask me to live in Kansas.”

His dry comment made me laugh. No, I couldn’t imagine a man like Devon living in Kansas.

“I won’t,” I said.

“Do you like the snow or the sun? Mountains or the ocean? Trees or plains?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled deep in his chest. “Not at all difficult to please, then,” he said.

My eyes were drifting shut, the exhaustion and stress catching up to me, and I mumbled a reply. The sound of his heartbeat underneath my ear was comforting to me, as was the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His hand was still lightly rubbing my back, and before I knew it, I’d drifted off.

It was dark by the time we left and I was starving, but even the hunger pangs in my stomach paled in comparison to my nerves.

Devon and I found a Salvation Army store in the small town, and we stopped to replenish our wardrobes. Though he’d had clothes with him, he’d ditched them in a dumpster because custom-tailored suits may have helped blend in with the crowd inside a city, but driving through Middle America, they’d stand out.

“You actually expect me to wear that?” Devon asked, raising an eyebrow at the plaid shirt I held up for him.

“It’s your size,” I said, “and it’s not bad. American Eagle brand, not bad at all.”

“It’s
checked
.”

“We call it
plaid
here and I adore plaid.”

“Bollocks.”

I snickered, shoving the hanger at him anyway. “Stop whining,” I teased. “They say plaid is the new black. Now be good, or I’ll buy you plaid in
flannel
.”

“God help me,” he muttered, trailing along as I moved from rack to rack. By the time I was done, we had several days’ worth of clothes in generic denim, cotton, and yes, plaid. I found some used tennis shoes for myself that fit well, and, for Devon, a pair of work boots that he didn’t complain overly much about.

“Expensive shoes stand out,” I said, “especially on a man.”

“Yes, that’s why I buy them,” he groused as he discarded his Ferragamos.

I had the suspicion that Devon knew all this as well as I did, and was only giving me a hard time to make me laugh and take my mind off things. And it worked, mostly. But there was still no denying the fact that the only reason we were buying the clothes was because I was being hunted by the FBI.

“Go out to the car and wait while I buy these,” he said, handing me the key. “There are only a few security cameras here, but the best ones—the ones with the clearest video—will be at the register, and I don’t want your face to be recorded.”

“Okay,” I agreed, my nerves coming back with a vengeance.

I looked at the ground as I headed for the SUV, not meeting anyone’s eyes as I passed. A man was behind me, maybe twenty yards, also walking through the parking lot. I couldn’t see what he looked like without being obvious, but I was acutely aware of him. The temptation was strong to walk faster, but that would make me stand out. Besides, there were other cars in the lot. Maybe it was just coincidence that he happened to be going to his car the same time I was going to mine.

Yeah, because that’s just how my luck had gone lately.

It occurred to me that leading him right to my vehicle wasn’t the best plan. All he’d have to do was overpower me—not difficult—throw me inside, and take the car.

I walked past the black SUV, which was parked in the farther reaches of the lot, and headed for another car. The man followed, only now he was gaining on me.

So much for coincidence.

I broke into a run, hoping I could outdistance him. What I didn’t have in strength, I could make up for in speed. My legs were long and ate up the pavement. Unfortunately, his did, too.

Doubling back, I dodged amongst the parked cars. I ducked behind a big pickup, crouching down as I scurried between vehicles, using them to conceal my location. Finding a shadowed spot next to a minivan, I stopped, getting as low to the ground as possible and yet still ready to run. I couldn’t see my pursuer any longer, but in the sudden quiet, I could hear him.

His feet crunched slightly on the asphalt as he searched for me. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though it were only a matter of time before he found his prey. And it was true. I couldn’t outrun him and I had no weapon. Even if Devon came out of the store in time, I was too far away for him to help me.

The footsteps were close, right on the other side of the vehicle where I was hiding. I held my breath and didn’t so much as twitch. If he’d just move on to the next car, I’d make another break for it and head back toward the store and Devon.

Hands came down on my shoulders and I bit back a scream, whirling with a fist cocked. Whoever he was, I wasn’t going down without a fight. But I froze.

“Devon?”

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you hiding?”

I glanced around frantically, looking for the man, but he was gone. “There was someone following me,” I explained. “He chased me and I ran between the cars to hide.”

Devon’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the lot, but the only people around were heading into the building, too far away to be the man who’d chased me.

“Let’s go.”

I obeyed Devon’s curt command, allowing him to hustle me into the SUV. But even as we sped out of the lot, my hands were still clammy with sweat as I stared out the back window, searching for the man. He couldn’t have just disappeared. But it seemed he’d done exactly that.

T
he incident outside the Salvation Army store had really thrown me. I couldn’t understand why the man hadn’t attacked or where he’d gone. Maybe he’d seen Devon and decided against it? Maybe it’d had nothing to do with the FBI search and he had just been a random predator targeting a woman walking alone?

As if my luck would be that good.

“You don’t think I’m making it up, do you?” I asked.

Devon glanced over to me, his brow drawn in a frown. “Why would I think that?”

“Because you didn’t see him,” I said. “Maybe you think I’m being paranoid or imagining things.”

“By now, I think you’re fully capable of knowing when you’re being pursued,” he said. “I can only assume he saw me and decided to wait for a more opportune time.”

My blood chilled. “Do you think he’s following us?”

Devon shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to deal with that as it happens. I don’t see anyone, but with satellites and drone technology, anything is possible.”

Satellites and drones. I hadn’t even thought about that. But all those things were at the government’s disposal, so wouldn’t they use them?

“We’re still alive and not in custody,” Devon said, reaching across the seat to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. “There’s a reason for that.”

I nodded, trying to feel comforted by his words, but it was hard.

It was evening when Devon pulled off the highway into a truck stop for gas, which appeared to be the only business for miles around. Over a dozen semis were parked in the lot and more were edging the off- and on-ramps to the highway.

Devon navigated to the fuel pumps. Cars were on the opposite
side from the semis with a large building housing a convenience store, fast-food restaurant, candy store . . . and a place selling western-style
boots.

Hmm. I didn’t have any of those.

“I can see it on your face,” Devon said in a resigned sort of way. He was leaning in the open driver’s side door, waiting for the tank to fill.

I pretended innocence. “What do you mean?”

“You want to go in the boots store.”

“Pffft,” I waved him off. “Don’t be silly. What would I do with cowboy boots?”

“You know, most women would go for the sweets,” he said.

“I like candy.”

His lips curved in a half smile. “Go on. You’ve got ten minutes, and no, I’m not buying whatever you fall in love with.”

I grinned and popped out of the car, feeling almost like my old self.

“Ten minutes!” he called after me.

I could do a lot of damage in ten minutes.

The bell over the door tinkled merrily as I walked in, and my nostrils were filled with the warm scent of leather that permeated the shop.

“Wow,” I breathed, taking it in. There were rows and rows of boots lining the walls, along with a small section in the back of leather belts, and a case displaying buckles of every size and shape imaginable.

I drifted toward the rows, taking it all in. It was like a nirvana for cowboy-boot lovers. One red pair in particular caught my eye and I couldn’t resist touching them, my fingers sliding over the detailed drawings of flowers and vines etched into the leather. I may not own any cowboy boots, but I could appreciate good quality and craftsmanship in any kind of footwear.

“I bet I have those in your size.”

Glancing behind me, I saw a wizened old man had approached, a smile buried under his gray beard and moustache. Eyebrows that could use a trim flanked eyes that assessed me as only a seasoned salesman could.

“Oh no,” I protested rather weakly. “I’m just looking.” My eyes were drawn back to the boots like magnets and I was still touching them.

“Might as well try them on,” he said. “You’re an eight?”

Wow. He was good. I nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the back at a faster clip than I would have thought him capable. I considered that I should probably leave, but it would be rude to just walk out on him, right? Plus, I hadn’t used up my full ten minutes yet. And I was cheerful, a condition that had become all too rare lately. I was loath to give up the feeling so readily.

“Here you go,” he said, returning with three boxes. He set them down on the floor next to a bench. “I brought those plus a couple of other pairs I thought you might like.”

Oh, this was bad. Really, really bad
, I thought as I sank onto the bench and started pulling off my tennis shoes. Yet I reached for the boot he handed me and slid it on. It fit perfectly, as did its mate. I
tucked my skinny jeans inside and smoothed the denim.

“Take a look at those, now,” he said proudly, gesturing to a full mir
ror attached to the wall. “They sure do look good on you, don’t they.”

Yes, yes, they certainly did.

“Try these,” he suggested, holding out another pair. They were a deeper red, and black, with more elaborate etchings. I snatched them up like an addict being offered a hit.

“They feel better than the others,” I said, parading in front of the mirror. Okay, I was totally rocking these boots.

“I have a buckle that would go perfectly,” he said, getting up from the stool he sat on. His knees creaked when he moved, but that didn’t slow him down as he went for the glass case in the back.

I saw Devon in the mirror as he walked up behind me.

“I think the
plaid
has gone to your head,” he said dryly.

I grinned. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do it with a cowgirl?” I teased.

“Somehow I believe real cowgirls rarely wear red boots.”

Pointing at him in the mirror, I said, “You’re so wrong. I bet they do wear red boots.”

“And how much are these shining specimens of American culture?” he asked.

Good question. I dug around in the box for the price tag, swallowing hard when I found it, then I quickly pulled off the boots.

“So I guess you’re ready to go?” I asked, being super careful as I put the boots away. They must have been inlaid with gold under that leather to justify the price.

“Whenever you are.”

“Did you decide on the boots?” the salesman asked. “This buckle would look mighty fine with ’em.”

I smiled. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to pass.”

“Are you sure? We’re having a sale. Buy a pair of boots and the second pair is twenty percent off.”

I hesitated, looking longingly at the boots, then Devon gave me
a shove out the door.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I muttered. “Just looking at them, that’s all.”

“Of course you were,” he said.

We headed into the convenience store part of the building and I used the bathroom, then grabbed a soda and a bag of potato chips while I waited for Devon. Tinny country music played over the speakers and bright fluorescent lighting lit the aisles.

Wandering around the place, I saw they had all kinds of kitschy souvenirs and knickknacks, though why someone would want to buy a two-foot-tall metal chicken made out of recycled Coke cans was beyond me. I paused by the dream catchers, done in every color of the rainbow. Now those I could’ve used a few months ago.

Three truckers were milling about the coffee machines, chatting. Wearing worn denim, baseball hats, and various stages of facial hair, it wasn’t hard to peg their occupation. I couldn’t help half tuning in to their conversation as they sipped from their steaming Styrofoam cups.

“. . . bear in the bushes up the road a ways,” one of them said.

I paused in my browsing, the term catching my attention.

“Shit. All the way out here?” another asked.

The first man nodded. “Yeah. Word is smokeys are as thick as bugs on a bumper. Gotta be in Louisville by mornin’ and I can’t waste time with a brake check.”

The door to the convenience store opened and a cop stepped inside.

I sucked in a sharp breath, freezing in place.

What if he recognized me? There was nowhere to go. I couldn’t even leave the store because I’d have to pass him to do it. I was trapped.

“Easy there, missy,” one of the truckers said to me in an undertone.
“Look somewhere else. You’re about to give yourself away, staring at him like a deer in headlights.”

My startled gaze met his. He gave a little nod and nudged me toward the candy rack. I took the hint, dropping down to hunch by the candy and pretending to give much consideration to Kit Kat versus Snickers.

The men casually stood close, their legs obscuring my view of the rest of the aisle.

“Evenin’, officer,” one of them said. I heard the officer mumble something in reply. A few seconds later, the truckers moved back.

“He’s gone,” the same guy said.

I got to my feet, my knees a little too shaky for my liking. “Thank you,” I said.

“There’s a lot of smokeys out there looking for somebody,” he said. “I reckon that might be you?”

It was rather obvious by my reaction so I didn’t bother lying and just nodded. “But I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I swear. I’m not dangerous.”

One of the men snickered. “You got that right,” he said, his voice gruff. “You look about as dangerous as my Aunt Mae.”

The others seemed to agree, with rounds of “Yep” and “No shit.”

“You headed down 65?” he asked. I nodded. “You traveling alone?”

“No. I’m with a . . . friend,” I replied, not really wanting to call Devon my “boyfriend.”

“Where you headed?”

I thought about not answering, but decided they might be able to help. After all, they already had. “Florida.”

“You got a CB?” he asked. I shook my head. “Get one. It’s a good way to keep up with what’s ahead of you. My handle is Slackjaw. This here’s Meatloaf.” He jerked his head to the first guy. “And Kentucky George.” The last of the trio. “You can keep in touch with us. We’re all headed down south.”

Given the names, I assumed those were all CB handles. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Got a handle?”

“Um, no . . .”

“Make one up and we’ll keep in touch,” he said.

I was immediately at a loss. A handle was like a nickname, right? I’d never had a nickname in my life.

“Uh, I-I don’t know—” I stammered.

“Outlaw Annie,” Meatloaf interrupted.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked. “She needs a handle.”

Slackjaw shrugged. “Outlaw Annie good with you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Who didn’t love Annie Oakley? I’d grown up out west, I knew who she was. She’d been a badass. “Thanks, guys.”

“You be careful now,” Slackjaw cautioned.

I met Devon at the counter and set my things on it for the cashier to ring up. I told him about the cop and what the truckers
had said about police being all around. His expression turned grim.

“Add a state map to that, please,” he said to the cashier, who obliged.

Once we were back in the SUV, we spread the map open on the dash.

“Best to turn off our navigation system,” he said. “Big Brother and all.”

I hadn’t thought of that and now I realized why he’d bought the map. I felt better being able to see where we were going, which was a heck of a lot easier with a paper map. And knowing the government couldn’t track me was also a huge plus.

“Did they say how far away they were?”

I shook my head. “No. Just ‘a bear in the bushes.
’
”

“Slang for a police car hiding,” he said.

“We need to buy a CB,” I said. “That way we can hear about stuff
like this.”

Devon glanced at me. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps I should be alarmed at how your mind is starting to work like mine.”

I didn’t tell him that Slackjaw had been the one to suggest it to me. “Great minds think alike,” I said with a shrug.

We Googled the nearest Wal-Mart, which had us double back about five miles, but they had CBs so it was worth the trip. Turning it on, I put the channel on nineteen.

We drove in silence for a while as I listened to the chatter on the CB. I noticed lots of semitrucks around. Traffic on the highway picked up as the evening wore on and more truckers were awake to avoid the daytime drivers.

It was about an hour after we’d left the convenience store when something on the CB caught my attention.

“Breaker one-nine, this here’s Slackjaw. You got a copy on me, Kentucky George?”

His accent was the same thick Southern I remembered from the convenience store. The CB speaker crackled again.

“Ten-four, Slackjaw. Kentucky George here, c’mon.”

“There’s a checkpoint Charlie up 65 a ways. They’re stopping everybody. A manhunt goin’ on.”

“Copy that, Slackjaw. How bad is the brake check?”

“
’Bout a mile now. Outlaw Annie, if you copy, you in particular might wanna get off the boulevard.”

Devon and I glanced at each other. “That’s me,” I explained. “They gave me a handle, said I was Outlaw Annie.”

“I thought it was your idea to get a CB?” he asked.

Damn. So much for my mad spycraft skills. “Okay, so maybe they suggested it, but I agreed.”

A smile flitted across his face. “A checkpoint and manhunt,” Devon said. “That’s not good.”