Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (13 page)

“How do we do that? And who knows how far Sampson’s reach is down here? And what if we go ahead and call the embassy or the C.I.A. or whatever? Can you promise me that they won’t make us go through the process here? Can you promise me they won’t turn us over to Sampson? That whatever laws apply don’t
require
them to?”

Jack pursed his lips, then swallowed. “No.”

They stared at each other, desperation hanging between them. Finally, Jack spoke. “So we get home. We get off this island, away from whatever influence Sampson has in the area, and we take whatever is on that flash drive to somebody that can help us in the States, face to face. It’ll be much harder for Sampson to pull strings there, and we’ll have rights.”

She looked at him with a pained, hopeless expression. “You should leave now, Jack. Get as far away from me as you can. They’ve got nothing on you, nothing linking you to Ruby, except me. Just tell them we went out a couple of times till you realized I was nuts.”

“You’re forgetting about the two dead bodies feeding the fish under my boat.”

Her shoulders caved a little more, and she closed her eyes, sighing.

“Why is this happening, Jack?” she whispered beseechingly. “
How
is this happening? And how are we going to get back to the States with that,” she said, pointing to the television, “going on?”

He eyed her carefully, then spoke, his words cautious and slow. “I don’t know why this is happening, Chloe. I wish I could tell you. Sometimes bad stuff happens to good people.” He paused, as if paying homage to some memory. “Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But, I have to believe there’s a reason. That it’s not pointless—”

“A reason for Ruby? Really?”

He didn’t respond, but instead inhaled deeply and clasped his hands together. “Look, first things first. Let’s get a look at that flash drive, okay? Let’s just concentrate on that. One thing at a time. As for getting back to the States, well . . . we’ll figure that out. I’ve got some ideas, but right now we’ve got to get out of here. That clerk up front—if he watches the news . . .”

She gave a quick nod, and he squeezed her shoulder. As they moved around collecting the few things in the room, a lump rose in her throat, and Chloe swallowed hard to keep it down. She’d been afraid that he’d tell her she was crazy, that her ranting about not calling the authorities was the result of an overactive imagination. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t listen, that he’d dismiss her fears. But he hadn’t. He had agreed with her. And that scared her even more.

TWENTY

“O, dear Lord, what have I done?”

Black curls littered the floorboards of Jack’s Jeep, as he stared, disgusted, at the scissors in his hands.

With big eyes, Chloe peered into the vanity mirror. “It’s okay. It had to be done. I couldn’t get the back by myself. And, it could be worse.”

His eyebrows shot up, his expression doubtful.

She met his gaze with a sad, conciliatory look. “Well, it’ll grow back, anyway. Just give me these,” she said, reaching for the scissors, “so I can even it out.”

The Jeep was parked deep in the woods, in a small clearing they’d found after driving inland from the Shores Motel and taking as many back roads as they could find until one finally dead-ended. A yellow-tufted bird called cheerfully, against the mood, as Chloe trimmed and snipped uneven hairs. They’d stayed in the room just long enough for her to get the dye in her hair and wash it out, then drove to this spot to finish the job. She glanced sideways to see Jack staring forlornly at her.

“Hey, I’m pretty sure I got the better end of this deal,” she said, nodding at his newly platinum head. The bleached blond look just didn’t suit him at all. The tone was all wrong for his skin. Anybody taking a hard look would see that. But from a distance, or to people just passing by, he wouldn’t be remarkable at all. And that would probably be good enough.

Hers looked less forced. The black color actually was sort of striking against her complexion. But the cut wasn’t her style at all. It resembled Emma Watson’s when she cut her long hair off in favor of a pixie cut.

If Emma Watson’s stylist had been blind and using garden shears
, she thought dully.

“Okay, I think I’ve done what I can here,” she capitulated, tossing the scissors in the baseboard and turning towards Jack, who had moved to the back of the Jeep and was working on removing the license plate.

“Okay,” he grunted, twisting off the last screw. He tossed the plate in the back seat. “It’s better than it being on there, but no license plate will draw attention, too. We’ll have to swap it out. Actually,” he offered, running a hand along the vehicle’s side, “it’d be better if we dumped it and got another.”

“We can’t even get a computer. How are we going to get another car?”

Jack gently bumped his fist on the door. “We could borrow one—”

“Borrow?”

“Well it’s not stealing if you leave it for them somewhere else.” Chloe raised her eyebrows skeptically. He shrugged shyly. “At least that’s what I’d tell myself. But a stolen car would draw Sampson’s attention faster than anything. We’ll just have to pray he’s not on the road when we are. Maybe park a decent hike from the hotel and walk in.” He focused on her. “You ready?”

She nodded.

The path out of the deep woods was rough. In order to avoid the main roads and, hopefully, being spotted by Sampson, they’d had to cut through some pretty obscure areas in the heart of the island. The Jeep jarred them violently as it bounced in and out of deep cavities that marked what was really little more than a wide dirt trail.

“Hold on,” Jack warned just as the Jeep lurched and a heavy smattering of what resembled brown cake batter smacked his side of the Jeep, leaving a trail all the way up his window. “Sorry about that. I’d try to avoid them, but there’s more pothole than road out here,” he said, half grinning at her. She knew he was trying to make her feel better, and she tried to smile back, but all she managed was a grimace.

He squeezed her shoulder and turned back to the road. She, however, kept her eyes on him, watching him as he drove, completely composed. If any of this had shaken him at all, he wasn’t showing it. Square jaw set. Eyes riveted forward. Smooth, even breaths taken with quiet confidence. He was not the least bit rattled.

She, on the other hand, was completely in knots and not hiding it very well. One look at her greenish face in the side view mirror had proved that. Their situation already had her stomach on the spin cycle, and now this roller coaster ride wasn’t helping. She hadn’t thrown up yet, but was pretty sure that was only a couple potholes away.
How to be more like Jack?
she wondered, eyeing him. Was that even possible for her in this insanity? Gunmen chasing her, torturing her. Shooting Jack. A mysterious flash drive. Literally running for her life. Tate at the heart of it.

And there was the answer. Tate at the heart of it. Yes, this whole thing was crazy, but she had no doubt that Tate’s ambition could have driven him to do something stupid enough to land them in a mess like this. She wished she felt differently. She wished she had faith that Tate had cared more about her safety than his greed. But Tate had proven time after time that putting faith in him just left you disappointed. Just like everyone else.

She eyed Jack warily. When would it be his turn? Something like courage flickered as she realized that it was probably inevitable. Given that, she had to accept once and for all that this was her reality, as insane as it seemed. If she didn’t own that soon, things were not going to get easier. Helplessness and fear were not her friends here. They led to dependence. And when you become dependent on someone, anyone—even a good guy like Jack—you eventually get hurt.
I’ve got to pull it together,
she ordered herself.
He’s here now, but he might not always be. Won’t always be.
She took a deep breath, stared down the scared, queasy-faced girl in the mirror, and resolved to be tough. It was time to get control of this thing.

It was a half hour before they reached what you could technically call a road. At least it was covered with gravel and the potholes were fewer and farther between. Another ten minutes landed them on an actual paved road that Jack said would take them to the beach on the northern shore and the LeClaire. Sure enough, little shacks and sheds began sporadically popping up on the roadside, then more modern structures, until finally they reached the town of Tasso. The town had existed since long before the English settlers had arrived and had managed to retain its native name despite the influx of western influence. Like Binghamton, it was set on a bay, with wharfs and all matter of sailing vessels dotting its shores. However, unlike the island’s capital city, it was more serene, less a victim of the invasive tourist industry that had transformed the rest of the island. The locals outnumbered the tourists here, with the majority still engaged in the fishing industry that had supported the island for centuries. Tourists wanting a slice of the old island came here for the day; most fled back to Binghamton or the nearby resort strip for their creature comforts before nightfall. The LeClaire was part of that small, developed resort strip just on the other side of Tasso proper.

After rehearsing the plan to the point of redundancy, they grew quiet. As they rolled towards the LeClaire, Chloe kept an eye out for Sampson, or any police for that matter. But they saw nothing even remotely suspicious. What they did see were cars carrying tourists off for their day in paradise. Locals working in the fish and craft markets lining the roadside. Brightly colored fabric hanging from racks just outside shop doors, twirling in the breezy sunshine.

A family of six seemed to be picking their way from one of the dives serving breakfast towards a row of outdoor markets. The frazzled mother darted after a small boy as he charged out ahead of the group. She scooped him up, and he giggled so enthusiastically that Chloe could have sworn she heard him as their Jeep zipped past.

Why couldn’t that have been her? Mother, wife . . . part of a family. The same old thing she’d been wanting her whole sad life. A life apparently destined to forever move from bad to worse based, not on her own choices, but on the selfish, miserable choices of other people.

But not Jack,
said a little voice in the back of her head.
He was a bright spot in your bad, before it turned to worse—through no fault of his own, by the way.
The thought challenged her need to protect herself, pitting it against her need to hope that maybe, just maybe, something good could happen to her. The internal debate raged.

If she let him, maybe Jack could be part of something good in her life. After all, he’d never done anything but look out for her. Was it fair to assume that, sooner or later, Jack would hurt her? Where was the proof of that?

Where was the proof he wouldn’t?

But she wanted to trust him.

But trust is dangerous.

Okay, so forget trust. What about just enjoying the moment—the uncomplicated . . .
goodness
. . . they’d shared before everything fell apart. Why couldn’t they just go back there? Where might they have been right now if Sampson had never entered her life?

Maybe they’d be in Tasso, combing the market for some trinket to send to Izzie. Or maybe they’d be taking that catamaran out for another afternoon of sailing, golden rays beaming down, Jack’s warm hand on her shoulder, steadying her—

“You okay?”

Jack’s voice jerked her back, and visions of the catamaran receded. She blinked, taking in reality again. “Yeah, fine.”

“You just . . . I thought maybe your head . . .”

“No. I’m fine,” she said, reaching to gather her curls in one hand, then realizing there weren’t any curls left to gather. Her hand dropped limply to her lap. A moment passed, and then he gently laid his arm across her shoulders and pulled her towards him. It surprised her, and she hesitated. But then, the lure of comfort beckoned her, and she caved, leaning into him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shrugged, hesitating to answer. “It’s stupid.”

“Come on.”

She sniffed, using the moment to decide whether it was worth it to say anything. “I was thinking about where we’d be right now if all this wasn’t happening.” She immediately regretted sharing and, embarrassed, looked out towards the sea.

“Not stupid. So what do you think we’d be doing?” he asked, playing along as the Jeep bounced, speeding ever closer to whatever awaited them at the LeClaire.

“Jack, I don’t want to do this.”

“Come on. What do you think we’d be doing?” he pressed.

“I don’t know. Eating somewhere? Sitting on the beach?” she offered lamely.

“Pathetic. Isn’t writing part of your job description? I would have expected better.”

She hated and loved that he could joke at a time like this.
How does he do it?
“Well, what do you think we’d be doing?”

“Hmmm.” His eyes settled on the distance where they stayed for several silent seconds.

“Well?” she egged, turning to look at him.

“Shhh. Hold on, I’m thinking.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth turned up slightly, which she realized had been his goal. She lightly swiped his arm. “Come on—”

“Okay, okay,” he mock-whined. “Forget morning. It’d be night. A thousand stars out. And you’d be in that dress, you know, the black one you wore that first night . . .”

It tumbled out, complete and serious, belying any suggestion that he’d made it up on the spot or that he was playing. It wasn’t the answer she expected. It was far more personal. And it drew her in, pulling her focus to him even more as he stared straight ahead, eyes unwavering from the road.

“. . . And we’d walk down that pier, right by Mendoza’s. Right to the edge. And I’d make you close your eyes. Really tight. And then I’d tell you to listen very closely, to see if you could hear the change in the water hitting the pilings as the next boat came in. And then . . .” He trailed off and her eyebrows arched, begging the answer. He cut his green eyes at her, flashing with amusement. “. . . being the wonderful, uncomplicated, no-strings attached friend that I am, I’d shake your hand, just to let you know how I feel.”

She let loose a full-on grin, shaking her head as she turned away and rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Then we’d walk back inside, open a bottle of the most expensive red wine in the house, and I’d make you tell me how you got that little scar on your chin,” he finished, running a finger along his own chin in the same spot where her scar was, “just there.”

“Well then, I guess after that I’d make you tell me how you got that huge scar on your back, right over your left shoulder.”

He cut his eyes at her again, seeming surprised. “Noticed that did you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Then the Jeep rounded a bend in the road, bringing up the resort stretch of beach, with its large communes of buildings and palm-dotted drives. The LeClaire’s entrance sign rolled into view a few hundred yards away, and all thoughts of night stars and red wine and trading stories of scars evaporated, as if they’d never been.