Mistaken Identity. Shirlee McCoy

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      They were moving steadily uphill, heading—she presumed—back toward Mason’s house. She expected him to ask more questions. She actually hoped he would. She just needed an opening, and she could explain the situation with Henry, tell Mason all about the young athlete, his cancer diagnosis and his upcoming surgery.

      But Mason seemed content to stay silent.

      She did the same, the sound of police sirens a constant reminder that she was running out of time. For all she knew, she’d be arrested as soon as she reached Mason’s house. She’d be tossed in jail for trespassing, and she’d never get an opportunity to say what she needed to.

      She couldn’t let that happened.

      She’d promised Bryn she’d give it her best. Walking mutely through the forest with the man who could help Henry? That wasn’t it.

      “I’m Trinity Miller,” she said, her voice a little too loud.

      Nothing.

      Not even a hitch in his stride.

      “I have a friend—”

      “No.”

      “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

      “Don’t I?” He turned abruptly, stopping short in the middle of the path. It was too dark to see his expression, but Trinity was certain he wasn’t smiling. “You have a friend who needs money, or an uncle who needs help, or you know a good charity I could donate money to.”

      “Not even close.”

      “Then why are you here?”

      “My friend’s son has cancer. He’s going to have his leg amputat—”

      “No,” he repeated and started walking again, his long legs eating up the ground so quickly she had to jog to keep up.

      “You haven’t even heard me out.”

      “I heard enough to say no.”

      “I drove six hundred miles!” she protested, her teeth chattering on the last word.

      She did not want to fail at this. She didn’t want to have to call Bryn to tell her that she’d blown their chance.

      “I’m sorry you wasted your time.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded irritated.

      “Look—” she began.

      Somewhere to their right, a branch broke.

      Mason grabbed her wrist, yanking her close to his side.

      “What—”

      “Quiet,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “I’m going to see who that is. You stay here.”

      “We need to stay together,” she whispered back.

      “It’s not up for discussion.” He pulled her off the path and dragged her into thick undergrowth. “Do. Not. Move.”

      Three words and he was gone, slipping soundlessly away while she shivered in his coat.

      * * *

      Another branch snapped as Mason crept through the heavy underbrush. He followed the sound, honing in on the soft pad of feet on dead leaves.

      Whoever was out there, he didn’t know much about being quiet. He also didn’t know much about staying hidden. Mason could see a flashlight beam bouncing along the ground a few yards away. The guy was searching, but he wasn’t even close to where Mason had left the woman.

      Trinity Miller.

      Interesting that she’d found him.

      Most people who looked didn’t.

      He had a house in Boston he rented out, and that was where people who were searching for him usually ended up. Somehow Trinity had ended up here. He wanted to know how. He also wanted to know why. She’d said something about a friend’s son and cancer, and he’d cut her off. He didn’t work with kids. There were too many memories there, but he was intrigued by the thought of someone going to such great effort to help a friend. Six hundred miles to see a stranger for a friend’s sake? That was a long way to travel.

      If that was really the case, if she’d really driven that far, Trinity was the kind of friend everyone wanted to have.

      If her claim was true.

      There’d been a lot of activity around his house lately. A few days before he’d left for John’s funeral, government officials paid him a visit. They’d wanted information about one of his clients. He’d refused to give it. The military police had stopped by the next day, demanding that he release confidential information. Mason had refused again.

      For all he knew, Trinity worked for the government or was part of the military, sent to do what the other two groups had not—gain access to information about Tate Whitman. Tate had served three tours in Iraq. He’d nearly lost his life there. Two years ago, Mason had fitted his prosthetic leg. Tate was an active guy. When he wasn’t teaching college counterterrorism classes, he was hiking, biking, running and lifting weights.

      Unfortunately, he was also the key witness in a court-martial case that had the potential to bring down some very high-level military officials. He’d gone into witness protection six months ago. Apparently, he’d run from it soon after. Now people were looking for him, and that seemed to always lead them to Mason.

      It wasn’t surprising. A computer chip Mason built into every prosthesis collected real-time information about the amputee’s movements and muscle strength. The information was sent wirelessly to Mason’s computer system. He used it to create the best prosthetic design possible for the individual. The system had a built-in tracking system that could be used to find the prosthetic if it was stolen or misplaced. In theory, it could also be used to track the amputee who was wearing it.

      It would take Mason all of five minutes to figure out where Tate was. He wasn’t going to. He had client confidentially to protect. Plus, he didn’t trust people. Not much, anyway. If Tate had thought he needed to hide from the organization that was supposed to be protecting him, he’d had good reason for it.

      It wasn’t Mason’s job to find out what it was. It wasn’t his job to turn him over to the military police, either. Eventually Mason might be subpoenaed. For now, he’d refused the request for information.

      Yeah. No. He wasn’t taking Trinity’s story at face-value.

      He stepped into the shadow of an old elm, the heavy branches leaning toward the ground and hiding him from whoever was approaching. He could still see the light, and he watched it as it crawled along a fallen log and passed Mason’s hiding place. Finally, a man stepped into sight. Tall. Lean. No weapon that Mason could see. That didn’t mean much.

      The perp he’d disarmed had been stupid enough to carry his gun tucked in the pocket of his jeans. This one could be hiding a weapon anywhere.

      The man passed, leaves crunching under his feet, his СКАЧАТЬ