Free True Shot by Joyce Lamb Page B

first time she’d witnessed the colorful change in season while on vacation with her family in the Shenandoahs. Winter? Not so much.
    She blinked her eyes open—when had they closed?—and tried to get oriented. She was supposed to be doing something important. Studying for a test. No . . . weapons training. That was it. She had to learn how to handle a gun. “Keep it pointed down range,” a male voice told her. “Okay, sight down the barrel. That’s it.” She imagined the target before her bore the face of the man who’d stolen her life. “Release the safety with your thumb.”
    “You doing all right over there?”
    A different male voice, this one concerned, pulled her back into the present, into an SUV driving down a twisty, wet road at the height of fall. Her senses took a long, lazy spin as the truck followed a curve. Oh, right, an N3 drug was eating away at her memory. And there was something important she had to tell this man. What was his name? Mac something. Mac . . . something . And she needed to tell him . . . damn. Tell him what ?
    Oh, right.
    “It’s already started. I don’t know how long I’ll be out, but wait it out. Don’t take me to the hospital. Don’t use your credit cards or cell phone. Don’t panic. Just . . . wait.”
    His eyes, fixed on the road, narrowed, and she thought that was kind of funny, really. He didn’t believe a word she said, yet worry radiated off him in waves. He must be a pretty nice guy to be so kind and caring about someone like her.
    Focus, she thought. Stay on topic. Think.
    “When I’m conscious again, touch me. Understand?”
    He didn’t respond.
    “Understand?”
    “Yeah.” His lips barely moved.
    “Promise me you’ll do what I said.” A decent guy like him had to be a stickler for promises.
    A muscle at his temple flexed, but he said nothing. No nod, either.
    “Promise.”
    He swallowed but still didn’t look at her. “Fine.”
    She let her shoulders relax. She had no choice but to trust him. And, oddly, she did trust him. He exuded honorable intentions. And strength. And dimples. And muscles . . .
    Her eyes slipped closed, and she fought the pull of sleep . . . why was she fighting it again? If she was so tired, why didn’t she just sleep? She didn’t have anything else to do while someone else did the driving.
    “Sam? Hey, Sam.”
    His voice followed her down into a deep, dark hole.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    F linn Ford bit out every swear word he could think of as Marco Ricci, his least-favorite among N3’s goon squad, sliced through the cords biting into his wrists. “Fucking goddamn son of a bitch. What took you so long?”
    “I left DC as soon as I lost contact with Deke and Tom, sir. Got here as fast as I could.”
    “Yes, yes, I know. Just . . . Samantha’s transmitter has been removed. I know she got rid of her work cell phone, but please tell me we’re tracking the GPS on her personal cell.”
    “Negative, sir. She doesn’t have it with her.”
    Flinn scowled at the imposing Italian man. Dressed all in black like Deke and Tom, he was muscular and tall, a permanent frown etched into his features. Flinn wanted to take his head off for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that an injured Samantha and an unarmed civilian had gotten the drop on him and two of his weapons-laden men.
    “ At least tell me someone got the tags on that Jeep.”
    “Yes, sir. Deke called it in before . . .”
    As Marco trailed off, Flinn glanced at Deke’s unmoving body on the floor, eyes open and staring. Next to him, Tom sprawled in a similar pose, just as dead. Regret nudged him. He’d liked Deke and Tom. Good soldiers. Competent and committed to the cause. Samantha had taken them out without hesitation. Irrefutable proof that he wouldn’t be able to reason with her.
    He stood, rubbing his sore wrists, and walked to the small refrigerator. Inside, he found a can of Coca-Cola and popped it open. The two hours he’d spent tied to a chair, cursing