San Antonio Secret. Robin Perini

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      “You can do it, Chloe,” Mallory cried, squirming to the van’s edge. “Jump.”

      The little girl shook her head. Fear froze her.

      Sierra stumbled to her feet, racing toward the van. “Come on, Chloe!”

      The van screeched to a halt. Mallory and Chloe tumbled backward.

      “Go, Sierra!” Mallory yelled. “Run.”

      Sierra kept coming. She had to help them, but the two men jumped from the van, their feet hitting the highway. They slammed the door closed. Mallory and Chloe were trapped.

      If Sierra went back, they’d all be caught. A gunshot exploded into the night. A bullet struck near her feet, then a hot burn pierced her thigh. She had no choice. She zigzagged down the highway, away from her best friend, praying her movements would offer Mallory another chance to escape.

      Veering to the side of the road, she dived into a patch of tall grass. Headlights flashed. A semi sounded its horn at the van blocking the road. The big truck slowed.

      The van took off with a squeal of tires, its mud-covered license plate useless.

      Sierra fought against the pain and stumbled back to the asphalt. She ran to the edge of the road yelling, praying the trucker would see her. He drove past. She sank to her knees, blood covering her right leg.

      A hiss of brakes sounded, and the semi pulled over.

      She looked up as a man ran toward her.

      “Mallory. Chloe,” she whispered. And passed out.

      * * *

      MERTZON, TEXAS, WASN’T on the way to anywhere. Just the way Rafe Vargas liked it. He pulled his truck past the town’s three restaurants. Each window had gone dark, a large Closed sign blinking the news. Sunday night. He should’ve known better than to think he’d find a restaurant open.

      Rafe’s stomach rumbled. After a day of training to keep his combat moves sharp, he’d been hankering for a greasy burger with onion rings. Nothing better at a small-town diner. Oh, well. Not as if he wasn’t used to disappointment. He turned off toward the Mertzon Inn, a small hole-in-the-wall motel. He appreciated the location several blocks off Highway 67. Out of the way, not obvious.

      He’d situated himself a couple hours from Carder, Texas, the headquarters for CTC. He liked working for Covert Technology Confidential. He liked helping people in trouble who had nowhere else to turn. He liked using the deadly skills Uncle Sam had drilled into him for the right reasons. But he also appreciated staying far enough away from headquarters that he didn’t have to socialize much. Besides, lately many of his colleagues had found their soul mates. They were too damn content and satisfied. Not that he wasn’t happy for them...and envious. But he didn’t need the reminder of what might have been.

      Of course there happened to be another reason to locate himself a good distance from an airport, be it CTC’s private strip or a commercial facility. Rafe couldn’t fly to Denver on a whim.

      To see her, the biggest mistake of his life.

      Sierra was not someone he should be thinking about. Not now. Not ever.

      Rafe parked the car across from the motel, scanning the lot’s perimeter. He’d stayed alive this long by being cautious, not doing the expected. This was his last night in Mertzon. He was getting too comfortable. Too recognizable. He’d move on tomorrow. Find another town, another motel. Another temporary home.

      His first stop, to verify that the small slip of paper he’d inserted into the doorjamb earlier in the day hadn’t been moved.

      He probably could’ve used some of CTC’s electronic toys, but sometimes low tech did the job better. And safer. No one could jam a paper’s nonexistent, electronic signal.

      His gaze slid above the Do Not Disturb sign. Still there. Good. He rounded the building. The motel’s small office had hung out the Closed sign and locked the door. Evening church. Being in Mertzon was like going back in time fifty years. Rafe didn’t mind. Fewer people; fewer questions.

      Once he’d completed his surveillance, and satisfied he hadn’t been located, he unlocked his small room and snagged a can of Texas-style chili out of a paper bag sitting in the corner. His movements smooth with practice, he disengaged a can opener from his utility knife and punctured the top, then headed back outside. He rested his dinner on the truck’s engine to heat up. Not exactly gourmet, but filling enough on an unusually warm January night.

      Rafe pulled out a longneck bottle of beer from his ever-ready cooler and waited for his dinner to heat. He had this particular meal down to a science. At least he wasn’t living on protein bars. Or worse.

      The curtain fluttered in the window of the room next to his. Rafe set down the beer and tensed, his hand easing toward his weapon. He’d stayed alive by never making any assumptions.

      Seconds later the door cracked open, and a small head peeked through the opening.

      Rafe relaxed and settled back against the truck. “Hi, Charlie.”

      The seven-year-old boy looked down the row of doors one way, then the other, before tiptoeing out of the room, his eyes wide, staring at the chili bubbling on the engine.

      “Whatcha doing, Mr. Vargas?”

      “Fixing dinner. The diner’s closed.”

      “Yeah, I know. Mama had to close up, then she went to clean the mayor’s house. She won’t be home until late.” The boy’s stomach growled.

      “Wait here, Charlie,” Rafe said. He paused, raking his gaze up and down the kid in speculation. “Don’t go near the engine. It’s hot.”

      Rafe strode back into the dingy motel room, with its Spartan furnishings. Digging into his supplies, he grabbed two spoons and a bowl.

      The boy stood on his tiptoes peering at the chili, balanced precariously near the engine.

      “Charlie,” Rafe’s voice warned, quiet so as not to startle the kid, but firm. “What did I tell you?”

      He grimaced and scooted back. “I didn’t know you could cook like this. When we lived in our car last summer, we ate cold stuff.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cold peas don’t taste good. They’re mushy.”

      “Better than being hungry.” Rafe snagged the chili with a napkin and poured half the meal into the bowl before handing it to Charlie.

      “I guess,” the boy said, stirring the meal. He couldn’t quite take his eyes away from Rafe’s face. “Why do you wear a patch?”

      The words sped from his mouth as if he’d been warned not to ask the question but couldn’t help himself.

      Rafe blew on the chili and swallowed a bite. “Well, I got used to wearing it on the pirate ship...”

      Charlie’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Really?”

      Rafe adjusted the eye covering. “Nah. I was in the war. I got hurt, and it messed СКАЧАТЬ