Under Fire

“It’s not safe.” He grabbed her shoulders and squeezed. “Do you believe me?”

Her green eyes grew round, taking up half her face. She glanced past him at the clinic door and nodded. Then she grabbed the straps on his bulletproof vest. “My purse, my phone.”

“Are they in the clinic?”

“Yes.”

He shoved back through the door and pulled her along with him. He didn’t quite trust that she wouldn’t go running all over the lab searching for the security guards. Wouldn’t do her any good anyway—Simon had killed them all.

She broke away from him and yanked her purse from a rack two feet from the body of a coworker. She dipped her hand in the pocket of her lab coat hanging on the rack and pulled out a phone.

Another crash erupted from somewhere in the building, and Dr. Whitman dropped her phone. It skittered and twirled across the floor, coming to a stop at the edge of a puddle of blood.

She gasped and hugged her purse to her chest.

The noise, closer than the previous one, sent a new wave of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Let’s go!”

Her feet seemed rooted to the floor, so he crossed the room in two steps and curled his fingers around her wrist, tugging her forward. “We need to leave.”

Still holding on to Dr. Whitman, Max plucked her phone from the floor and headed toward the stairwell again. He half prodded, half carried Dr. Whitman upstairs, and when they reached the door to the outside, he inched it open, pressing his eye to the crack.

The car he’d stolen waited in the darkness. He pushed open the door of the building and a blast of air peppered with sand needled his face. He ducked and put an arm around Dr. Whitman as he hustled her to the vehicle.

She hesitated when he opened the passenger door. The wind whipped her hair across her face, hiding her expression.

It was probably one of shock. Or was it fear? “Get in, Dr. Whitman. They’re here.”

This time she didn’t even ask for clarification. His words had her scrambling into the passenger seat.

He blew out a breath and lifted the bulletproof vest over his head. Would Simon have turned the gun on him after everything they’d gone through together? Sure he would’ve. That man in there who’d just committed mass murder bore no resemblance to the Simon he knew.

He threw the vest in the backseat and cranked on the engine. He floored the accelerator and went out the way he came in—through a downed chain-link fence.

He hit the desert highway and ten minutes later blew past the small town that served the needs of the lab. The lab didn’t have any needs now.

After several minutes of silence, Dr. Whitman cleared her throat. “Are we going to the police now? Calling the CIA?”

“Neither.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” She blinked her long lashes. “Whose home?”

Without turning his head, he raised one eyebrow. “Your home. You have one, don’t you? I know you don’t live at the lab—at least not full-time.”

“Albuquerque. I live in Albuquerque.”

“I figured that. Once I drop you off, you’re free to call whomever you like.”

“But not now?”

“Not as long as I’m with you.”

She bolted upright and wedged her hands against the dashboard. “Why? Don’t you want to meet with the CIA? Your own agency? Tell them what happened back there?”

“What do you think happened back there?” He squinted into the blackness and hit his high beams.

“Simon Skinner lost it. He went on a murderous rampage and killed my coworkers, my friends.” She stifled a sob with the back of her hand.

She showed real grief, but was the shock feigned? Extending his arms, he gripped the steering wheel. “How much do you know about the work you do at the lab?”

“That’s a crazy question. It’s my workplace. I’ve been there for almost two years.”

“Your job is to treat and monitor a special set of patients, correct?”

“Since you’re one of those patients, you should know.” She dragged her fingers through her wavy, dark hair and clasped it at the nape of her neck.

One soft strand curled against her pale cheek. Whenever he’d seen her for appointments, her hair had been confined to a bun or ponytail. Now loosened and wild, it was as pretty as he’d imagined it would be.

“And the injections you gave us, the vitamin boost? Did you work on that formula?”

She jerked her head toward him and the rest of her curls tumbled across her shoulder. “No. Dr. Arnoff developed that before I arrived.”

“Did he tell you what was in it?”

“Of course he did. I wouldn’t inject my patients with some mystery substance.”

“Were you allowed to test it yourself? Did you work in that lab?”

“N-no.” She clasped her hands between her bouncing knees. “I wasn’t allowed in the lab.”

“Why not? You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“I...I’m... The lab requires top secret clearance. I have secret clearance only, but Dr. Arnoff showed me the formula, showed me the tests.”

He slid a glance at her stiff frame and pale face. Was she still in shock over the events at the lab or was she lying?

“Now it’s your turn.”

His eyes locked onto hers in the darkness of the car. “What do you mean?”

“It’s your turn to answer my questions. What were you doing at the lab? You weren’t scheduled for another month or so. Why can’t we call the police or the CIA, or Prospero, the agency you work for?”

“Prospero?”

She flicked her fingers in the air. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Nobody ever told me the name of the covert ops agency we were supporting, but I heard whispers.”