She nodded under his hand and he rolled off her fluidly, sitting on the edge of the bed with his broad back to her.
A big black gun was strapped to his waist alongside a knife.
Oh God.
She slipped from under the covers and padded to her small bag quickly in the shadowy room. There was no time for modesty. Still, she turned away from Liam. She whipped the overlong T-shirt over her head and yanked a T-shirt and jeans from her backpack. He stepped up alongside her so quietly she almost yelped—then remembered the no-talking edict.
Silently, he passed her gym shoes and socks. She dropped to the bed and yanked them on. Tying the laces, she realized Disco had never made a sound during this whole encounter. He always, always alerted her to strangers approaching. Her heart lurched until she saw her dog standing just behind Liam. The Lab’s black coat had blended into the darkness.
Now the two of them stood like sentinels between her and whatever waited outside that had stirred Liam to such extreme action. Her stomach tumbled over itself with nerves. It was one thing to lead a search for bodies in the aftermath of disaster. Another to be on the run as her world crumbled around her feet.
Her life was spiraling out of control rather than settling. But she’d brought Liam into this, because for some unknown reason, she trusted him more than anyone. That meant following him now.
Swallowing hard, fully dressed, she turned toward him and nodded.
Liam jerked his head toward the hall without a word, and as she walked through the house, she realized that all the blinds had been drawn. No one could see out—or in. Disco’s nose swiveled left hard and fast, causing Rachel to stop short. She eyed the line of his attention to the living room—and gasped.
Sylvia Cramer lay stretched out on the sofa. With her hands folded over her chest and her upswept auburn hair only a bit mussed, she appeared to be—dead? Liam glanced back at her, his eyebrows pinched together, but he didn’t show the least surprise or interest in Sylvia. Rachel grabbed her dog’s collar, hair rising on her arms. Then she realized—thank God—Sylvia’s chest rose and fell evenly in deep sleep.
Now that was almost strangest of all. The OSI agent just taking a nap? In the middle of an assignment? She checked the clock hanging on the wall over the television armoire and saw it was only three o’clock in the morning. She’d slept only two and a half hours. Bullfrogs sang a full nighttime chorus outside.
Liam held up a hand, motioning for her to stay still. He crossed to Sylvia with steps so silent it unsettled her more than a little. Scooping up the sleeping agent, he carried her through the safe house and back to Rachel’s room. Through the open door, she saw him place Special Agent Cramer on the bed and pull the covers over her. If anyone came in, they would assume it was Rachel.
Okay, he mouthed to Rachel a second before he wrapped his fingers around her arm, strong, gentle… insistent. His eyes spoke louder than any words. We need to go.
Tugging her attention from the oddly sleeping agent, she padded softly through the house until Liam reached the garage. Opening the door, he revealed two vehicles, both facing nose out, as if preset for a speedy exit. The closest, a nondescript blue sedan, was parked beside a dark blue Suburban with tinted windows. He motioned her toward the latter, on the far side.
Because of the windows? Or the sturdiness? Certainly not because of fuel efficiency, she thought with a hysterical bubble working its way up her throat.
Again, he held a finger over his mouth, reminding her to stay silent. He opened one door, the driver’s side, and gestured her and Disco inside.
Were there listening devices in the house? Were agents at the OSI actually listening for how many doors closed? Although that made sense, since if Sylvia left, she would be alone, so only one door would shut.
Of course Sylvia was asleep inside, so there must not be cameras watching, or someone would already be after them.
What about any other guards outside? Were they all “napping” too?
She climbed inside and across the seat, her knee sliding in her haste. Liam’s steadying hand cupped her butt, and holy crap, the heat seared clear through her jeans. And it was crazy that in the middle of a crisis she wanted to spin around and fling herself against his chest, wrap her arms and her legs around him while she finished the kiss they’d barely gotten to start earlier.
Actually not so crazy, considering she’d been having erotic dreams about him, when she should be too scared to breathe, much less lust. Although even in the middle of this hell, apparently Liam had the same feelings, which made her feel less like a freak of nature for being turned on when she should be worried about the people gunning for her.
Sitting upright, she yanked on the seat belt while Disco hopped into the back. Liam settled behind the wheel and opened the automatic garage door before her belt clicked.
Again, she was sneaking off base and she had no idea why. She reached across and touched Liam’s shoulder lightly, asking silently if it was okay to speak.
He shook his head.
God, how much longer would this silence contest last? Her heart beat so loudly, surely anybody listening in would hear her.
Hours later—or more likely about ten minutes later—Liam pulled into a cluster of palm trees by a vacant outdoor mall. He moved so smoothly, competently. She’d forgotten about his efficiency of movement, nothing wasted, nothing out of sync. Using the illumination of outdoor streetlamps and a flashlight from the glove compartment, he searched the interior and exterior of the SUV, disconnecting wires inside, then sliding underneath the vehicle.
Minutes later he slipped out again, arced back his arm, and threw a fistful of tiny silver disks into a canal flowing between the dead mall and a pathetic used-car lot. Liam leaped the channel and moved among the cars. A temporary plate? Made sense. But what about the etched white letters on the side? He peeled a Maid Service magnet off the defunct service’s Dumpster out front and slapped it on the side of the Suburban over the wording painted on the door—some kind of military designation?
He was frighteningly good at this.
Back in the vehicle, he slammed the car into reverse and back onto the road. “Now we can talk.”
She wanted to ask a million different things, but she settled for, “Um, where are we going?”