Having it as a precaution for an emergency was one thing. Using it to break into Fortress Britain?
Could Samira get Tess to collect the “gift,” seeing as Samira would only be handing it along, assuming it was the evidence they needed? Charlotte would know who Tess was, after all the coverage about her scoop on Hyland. Tess would know what to do. She was in contact with the special counsel investigating Hyland, she had the media at her bidding, she was a folk hero in certain circles in the United States—and public enemy number one in others—and she had ten times Samira’s courage. Like that was hard.
Not forgetting that Tess had a bulletproof French Foreign Legion boyfriend backed up by a squad of Legionnaire friends who’d do anything for each other. Like escort a stranger into hiding. And look after her a little too well.
Guilt poked Samira in the ribs.
Calm down, Conscience. It’d been an error of judgment at a stressful time that’d rightfully ended, abruptly and awkwardly.
So why had she thought about him every day since?
She hissed in a breath through her teeth. Because she had too much time to think.
Anyway. Small steps, and none of them involved Jamie... Jamie... Hell, she didn’t even know his surname. The others had just called him “Doc.”
Anyway. First, she had to break comms silence and contact Tess. Tess would come up with a plan that bypassed Samira, hopefully. She fished her Italy guidebook from her backpack—because pages read in a book couldn’t be tracked like pages on the web—and chose an internet café in Perugia, a two-hour drive in the opposite direction from the last one she’d used to contact Tess. Though they were communicating rarely and via a secure, coded system, they’d defaulted to extreme precautions after Samira’s carelessness had revealed Latif’s location to Hyland.
She pulled out her wallet and counted her shrinking pile of euros. The last of the money she’d saved for her wedding and a deposit on an apartment in San Francisco. A long-dead dream from a long-dead life.
From a distant field, a bull bellowed. She flinched. At least a lengthy drive would give her a break from the hell that was paradise.
* * *
BY THE TIME Samira returned, the hillside glowed amber in midafternoon sun. She parked her little white Fiat, as usual, between an overgrown olive grove and a derelict barn beside the neighbor’s vineyard, tucked back from the main road. It meant a cross-country hike through a steep field to the cottage, but better that than being stuck in her dead-end driveway when the shit spun in the—when the fan turned the sh—
Whatever.
She locked the car and pushed through the olive branches. At least paranoia gave her something to do with her many spare hours.
From the ridge, the cottage looked as lifeless as she’d left it. Such peace and beauty, yet the thought of locking herself away for another night... In the field the cows’ great heads nudged the scorched grass. They bolted if she as much as sneezed, so if they were calm, she was calm. They wouldn’t appreciate it when she got to the cottage and fired up the four Js on the speakers—Janis, Joni and the two Joans. You could bring the culture to the cow... She screwed up her face. No, that wasn’t nearly the expression.
She checked the motion-sensor data on her phone’s security app. With one bar of Wi-Fi coverage from the cottage, it took its time loading. Several cars had passed along the road in her absence but none had entered the driveway and there’d been no movement in or around the cottage. She tapped the phone, tempted to check for a reply from Tess, but...no. The phone was only to control her security system—and play her music, because otherwise she’d go insane. No network connection, no calls, no data, no browsing.
She squeezed through the rickety wire fence, the sunshine a balm on her nape. After sending the message to Tess, she’d waited at the internet café as long as she could without raising eyebrows but there’d been no reply. She’d checked a couple of media sites, via an incognito connection. Hyland was still proclaiming his innocence. “Why the heck would I be involved in a ludicrous plot to kill American citizens in order to orchestrate a war? This is an outrageous conspiracy that robbed me of the chance to lead the country I love, and continues to haunt me and my daughter, who stands with me through this difficult time. Patriotic Americans everywhere should be alarmed about this threat to our democracy. I am confident that the special counsel will find no evidence of wrongdoing on my part, justice will be served to those who slander me and I will be free to continue doing what I’ve spent my entire adult life doing, as a marine, a CIA agent and now a senator—serving and protecting this great nation.”
Creep. As Samira followed the fence line, a rhino-sized cow jerked its head up and eyed her, freezing, as if she wouldn’t notice it if it didn’t move. One by one its sisters followed until half a dozen black-lashed brown eyes tracked her progress. “Va tutto bene,” she said, quiet and warm. “Non aver paura.” Right—because Tuscan cows were more likely to understand It’s all right, don’t be scared in Italian? The rhino’s head twitched and a smaller cow sprang sideways, but for a change they didn’t bolt en masse. Maybe they were getting used to her. Which had to be Fate’s way of warning her it was time to move on.
* * *
WELL AFTER DARK, Samira jerked awake. The A-Team theme tune was squeaking out of her phone. She swiped it off, her chest tight. Definitely engine noise, but low. She swallowed. A car in the night was unusual but not unheard of.
Another alarm. The A-Team again. A second car on the road. She silenced it, shot out of bed, slipped on her waiting boots and coat and grabbed her backpack. Two cars on her little road at this hour? One hell of a coinciden—
The alarm shrilled again, followed immediately by the MacGyver tune. Shit. Three vehicles, one already on the driveway. Working on feel, she pulled up the bedcover, restored the pillows, scattered cushions over top and let herself out of the cottage, as she’d practiced a dozen times, keeping out of scope of her sensor lights. MacGyver started over. Multiple engines purred. Modern, expensive cars—two on the driveway now.
By the next repeat of MacGyver, she was ankle deep in pasture, cows scattering before her. The cold whipped her bare legs. Her heart thumped with the shock of being slingshot out of warmth and sleep. With fumbling fingers, she set the phone to vibrate, blinking fast to force her eyes to adjust. Damn, she should have practiced her evacuation at night. The first engine muted. A car door clicked open. Her breath skittered as she stumbled uphill, looking over her shoulder. Her security lights burst on, flooding the courtyard and driveway, and setting her phone shaking again. A big black SUV had pulled up in the turning bay, headlights doused. Four darkly clad figures silently fanned out, their arms locked straight and pointed downward. Handguns. An identical vehicle pulled up alongside, leaving one more engine approaching. More people spilled out. Her phone kept vibrating. Or was that just her hand?
A crack, a smash—wood, and glass. Hooves thundered, shaking the earth, the cows’ glow-in-the-dark flanks flashing past. Hell, they wouldn’t stampede her, would they? Between their flying bodies she made out the figures of two men down at the French doors, looking like they were pulling up from a shoulder charge. White-blond hair gleamed from one guy’s head. He braced for another go. She upped her pace but her foot shot into a hole. Her ankle buckled, pain flashing through it, and she sprawled onto the grass, her cry muffled by a crash as the door gave. She pushed herself up and tested the ankle. Just a strain. Cold dew coated her leg. Focus on what’s right in front. Small steps. If she didn’t capitalize on her scant head start, she was—what? Dead? Despite
