a checkered shirt before he backed out. If someone was watching the exit to the garage looking for a special ops type, a good old boy might escape their notice. Still, he was alert and diligent as he pulled out onto the street, making note of each and every car in the flow of traffic.
He didn’t relax until they were heading south on 295 toward Bolling Field. It was dark and quiet and at this hour, few cars were on the road. It made it easier for him to check for a tail. He pulled off the freeway several times, just to make sure no one followed.
“Where are we going?” He winced as her voice rose from the back.
“Quiet.”
“I want to know where we’re going.”
“They could be listening.”
“We’re miles away from my apartment. Long-range mics need line of sight.”
“Not all mics. They can listen in on conversations from satellites, if conditions are right.”
She huffed an impatient breath. “I am aware of that, but we’re in a car. They can’t follow a target moving this quickly.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder. How did she know that? And damn, she was right. Still, he muttered, “Yet.” They were probably close to that capability, based on his research.
“Well, we’re not running from bad guys in the future.” In addition to being an expert on surveillance tech, she apparently had a black belt in sarcasm. He had no idea why his lips quirked.
“So where are we going?”
“An airfield to the south.”
“An airfield? Where are we going from there?”
He shot a look at her. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“I want to know.”
“I’m sure you do, but it’s classified.”
She snorted and muttered under her breath, “Nothing is classified.”
“This is classified.”
“Who do you work for?”
He liked the way she changed tacks, as though she thought by keeping him off balance she could get him to spill something. Still, his response was vague. “An organization.”
“Are you with the FBI? NSA? CIA?” She tracked his reaction to each one. “Black Ops?” He must have winced because she sat back and murmured, “Ah. Black Ops.”
“I am not Black Ops.”
“Then who do you work for?”
“It’s classified.”
“You have to tell me something.”
“Do I?”
“I’m not getting on a plane with you until I know you’re not one of them.”
“One of them?”
She waved a hand. “One of the bad guys.”
“I can tell you this. I work for a team that has one goal. Finding and killing Babikov.”
She stilled.
“Yeah. The douchebag you’re carrying intel on.” He tried to remain unemotional, but the snarl came out. Apparently, his animosity interested her. She scooted forward and leaned her arms on the seat back, propping her chin on them. She should sit back. She should be wearing her seatbelt. He knew if he suggested as much, she’d ignore him, so he didn’t bother.
“Why do you hate him?” she asked.
“I don’t hate him.” A boldfaced lie. “He’s my mission.”
“You hate him. I hear it in your voice. Why?”
He frowned at her. And then, at the same time, they both said, “It’s classified.”
She chuckled. “Right. I can’t trust a man if I don’t understand his motivations. Pull over and drop me off at the nearest gas station. I can thumb a ride with a trucker.”
Horror at the prospect curled through him. “I’m not dropping you off at a gas station. And you’re not thumbing a ride with a trucker.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
He gaped at her. “No. It doesn’t.”
“They would never expect me to thumb a ride with a trucker.”
Was she insane? Had he somehow gotten tangled up with a mad woman? “You’re safer with me.”
“Says you.”
“Yeah. Says me.” Were they in third grade? And why the ever loving hell was he enjoying this battle? What was wrong with him? He should tie her up and gag her.
Well, fuck. The thought of tying her up did something nasty to the coils of his bowels. His pulse surged at the nastier visions flickering through his imagination.
“I don’t know you, Mister Ghost. I don’t even know your name. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I saved your ass back there in your apartment?”
“I was doing fine when you arrived.”
“Right. With a blade a second from severing your jugular.”
“I had him right where I wanted him.”
He had no idea why he barked a laugh. Probably because she was as brash and fearless as he was. Probably because they were very much alike. Too much alike for comfort, really. “My mission,” he said in a firm tone, “is to get you, and your intel,