Expired Getaway (Last Chance County #7) - Lisa Phillips Page 0,34
gym memberships, and he’s been sober six years.”
“So basically you’ll fall for a sob story. Because this guy is prime sucker material, and he’s probably leveraged to the hilt. Now he’s desperate and looking to get out of whatever mess he’s gotten himself into.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“Is he?”
“I thought so.” Millie couldn’t believe he might be right. Not because she begrudged her husband his ability to assess people the way he did at work. “Apparently I was very wrong.”
“Did you even look at his service record?”
“You think I didn’t call in every favor I had before I hired him? I vet the people who work for me.”
“And yet he’s outside with a rifle, and we’re both sitting on the floor waiting for him to kill one of us.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know this would happen.”
“Right. That’s why you packed a protective vest to go on a week-long romantic getaway.” He shot her a look. “Because that’s standard operating procedure.”
“I’m allowed to be cautious.”
“I’m going outside. If I can find him, I can get to him before he gets to you.”
The way he said it didn’t make Millie super confident. “I know you’re mad—”
“You think I’m mad?”
She opened her mouth to argue but didn’t know what to say again.
“Okay, fine. I’m furious. You should’ve told me you had reason to think a threat was in play. You could’ve put our kids’ lives in danger. And for what? That’s what I don’t get. What does your company even do?” His jaw flexed again.
Millie felt a tear roll down her cheek.
He ignored it. “If I’m going to die for your client list, I’d like to know who they are.”
“Please don’t die.” She swiped at the wet on her cheek and realized she still held the gun.
“Talk fast.”
She swallowed, while her stomach refused to quit roiling. “When a spy is burned, they’re left wherever they are with no resources. No way home. Nothing to help them start over, or build a life. We help them get where they need to go and give them a loan to get them started. Housing. IDs—driver’s license and social security number. They can set up bank accounts and work on getting a job.”
“After they’re burned.”
“They deserve to have lives, even if the CIA doesn’t want anything to do with them anymore. These people have enemies who want to find and kill them and anyone they care about.”
“So it’s like witness protection. For spies.”
She’d heard it called that before.
“I’ve heard rumors. I just didn’t know the mastermind behind all of it was my wife.”
“Eric—”
“I need to go find this guy before he gets the drop on us.” He headed for the living room, where he lifted just barely enough to peer over the bottom of the window frame.
It shattered above him.
Eric ducked as glass sprayed over his skin.
Millie screamed.
“Stay there!”
The scream died to a whimper.
“I’m serious, baby. Stay there.”
His calling her that only made her whimper more. Please don’t die.
The client list was valuable, and if he knew how many spies would be at risk, he would consider his life a worthy exchange to keep them safe. Millie did not. He was her husband, and she needed to be selfish right now. The alternative was watching him die in front of her before she got to tell him her news.
“I’m going to—”
A dark shadow appeared in front of the shattered window. The blast of a gunshot echoed through the living room.
Eric fell to the floor.
Millie lifted the gun, squeezed the trigger and screamed. She kept squeezing it even as she corrected her aim. Again and again, the man’s body jerked. He moved then.
Ran off.
Had she hit him?
“Millie!”
Silence settled with the dust falling around them.
She scrambled to her husband, who had both hands on his abdomen. Right side. Blood seeped between his fingers.
She twisted, pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and pressed it against the wound.
Hard.
Eric grunted. “Backup is coming.”
Maybe, but would they get here fast enough?
“Is he gone?”
She glanced out the window but could see only trees.
“Mill—” Pain cut across his expression, and he grunted.
She pressed on his wound. When his gaze met hers, Millie said what she’d come here to say.
“I’m pregnant.”
Twelve
Bridget gripped the steering wheel and made the turn onto the dirt road that led up the hill to her father’s house. She’d seen the map. The cabin was barely accessible, but her dad had dirt bikes. He was obsessive about maintaining them for when the weather was bad—or, at least, he had