the old man had misremembered. No, I’m sure she wouldn’t like having us in her house, Travis thought. He glanced down the road, which was empty, then sat back on his heels and looked up at the man. “I thought I heard they just moved in,” he said.
“That’s right. They’ve only been here a couple of weeks. But I made a point of going over to meet them. I think it’s always a good idea to know your neighbors.”
So he didn’t go out much, but he definitely kept tabs on everything. That might make him a useful witness in court one day. “Uh-huh.” What could he say to get rid of this guy?
“Her husband was a little standoffish, but she was sweet as could be. As beautiful inside as she is outside.”
Yeah, she fooled me into thinking that once, too. He turned back toward the electrical box. “It’s been great talking to you,” he said. “But I’d better get back to work. We should be out of your way pretty quickly.”
“All right.” The man leaned closer to peer at him. “Duke G. What does the G stand for?”
“Graham.” Travis glanced at the name embroidered into the shirt. He had no idea who Duke Graham was. It was merely the name someone in the props department for TacOps had chosen.
The old man moved back up the road and turned into his driveway. Travis stood and walked up the driveway a short way, until he was sure the neighbor was out of sight. Then he pulled out his phone.
“What is it?” Gus answered halfway through the first ring.
“The next-door neighbor was over here nosing around. I’d hurry it up if I were you.”
“We’ll wrap it up as soon as we can, but we don’t want to abort if we don’t have to. We aren’t likely to get another warrant.”
“Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
“Thanks.” He disconnected, and Travis pocketed his phone and returned to the end of the driveway.
Five minutes later, his knees were beginning to ache from crouching in front of the utility box when a white Toyota sedan came roaring around the curve and swept into the driveway. Travis didn’t have time to leap out of sight into the bushes or pull out his phone or weapon before the car screeched to a halt and the passenger window rolled down. Leah stared at him, but said nothing. She appeared stunned.
Her hair was longer than he remembered, and she was maybe a little thinner, but she was still as beautiful as ever. He hated the way his heart ached when her eyes met his. She had dumped him with no explanation and had never looked back. He had thought that betrayal had burned away all the love he had felt for her, but apparently there was enough feeling left that he could still hurt.
He stood and moved toward her. He had one job now, and that was to keep her away from the house until the team finished their work. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, his voice flat, betraying nothing.
She gripped the edge of the window with both hands, her knuckles white. She wore red polish on her nails to match the scarlet of her sweater, but some of the polish was chipped. Unlike her. She was usually perfectly put together. “Who are you?” The driver—a burly man who wore a knit cap pulled low over his forehead—leaned across Leah to glare at Travis.
“There’s a problem with the power,” Travis said, still watching Leah out of the corner of his eye. “We should have it repaired shortly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Time seemed to speed up after that. The driver reached under his jacket. “Down, Leah!” Travis yelled as he drew his own weapon. She shoved open the passenger door and dropped to the ground as he and the driver exchanged fire. Travis dived for the cover of the electrical box as Leah rolled toward the ditch. The driver revved the car and veered off the driveway, crashing into the underbrush.
In the silence that followed, Travis studied the slumped figure of the driver and decided he had been wounded, or maybe killed. He needed to check on the man in a minute, but first he had to deal with Leah. She crawled to him. “Travis, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Maybe I wanted to see you,” he said. “Maybe I wanted to ask why you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to my face.”
Two bright spots of color bloomed on her pale cheeks, as if she were feverish. “I thought it would be easier if I left quietly.”
“You left me a letter. A freaking Dear John letter, like some bad movie cliché.” The diamond engagement ring he had given her only six weeks before had sat beside the letter, another bullet to his heart.
“I really don’t think we should be talking about this.” She glanced up the drive toward the wrecked car. “I have to go.”
He moved in front of her. “I think it’s past time we talked.” This really wasn’t the best place for this conversation, but he couldn’t keep the words back. “I loved you. I thought you loved me. We were going to be married, and then one day I get home and all I’ve got left of you is a note on the kitchen counter.” The note had read I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t come after me. This is for the best. Love, Leah. The “love” had trailed off at the end, as if her hand had shaken as she’d written it.
She wouldn’t look at him, staring instead at the ground. Her hair was coming undone from its ponytail, and she had a streak of dirt across her cheek. “Sometimes things aren’t meant to be,” she said.
“Are you married to Braeswood now? Or should I call him Ellison?”
She jerked her head toward him, her eyes wide. “No! Why would you think that?”
“The neighbor called you Mrs. Ellison.”
“Oh, that. That’s just...” But she didn’t say what it was. He filled in the blank. Her cover story. The lies they told to hide their terrible purpose here.
“I get that you don’t love me anymore,” he said, letting that harsh truth fuel his anger. “But I don’t understand this. Do you know what Duane Braeswood and his friend Eddie do? They’re terrorists. They kill people. It’s fine if you want to hate me, but do you hate your country, too?”
She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “I know what they do,” she said softly. “And I don’t expect you to understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” He leaned toward her, his face so close to hers he could smell her perfume. An image flashed in his mind of her naked, her body soft against his, his nose buried in the satiny skin of her throat, inhaling that floral, feminine scent.
He blinked to clear his head, and the blare of a horn yanked him back to the present. He looked past her, down the road, where the Escalade was barreling toward them. “I have to go,” she said, and turned as if to run.
He snagged her arm and dragged her with him into the underbrush, seconds before the Escalade screamed into the drive.
Travis had a glimpse of Duane Braeswood at the wheel, his face a mask of rage, as the SUV flew by.
He
