Agent to the Rescue

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“This must be so hard for you,” Claire said, “not having your memories. Not knowing how you grew up—who your family is or your friends...”

She wondered if she had any—since nobody had filed a report about her missing. Dalton and Agent Stryker stepped back into the room, and like the love between the Strykers, there was love between the men—a strong bond of friendship.

Her heart ached with an overwhelming sense of loss. But she hadn’t just lost her friends; she had lost herself, as well.

Dalton uttered a long-suffering sigh, even while his dark eyes twinkled with merriment. “I had to give this guy some advice for the honeymoon.” He turned toward Claire. “You’re welcome.”

The new bride laughed. “Like you have any experience with honeymoons or will ever have any experience...”

Apparently, as well as growing up on the streets, Dalton had grown up determined to remain single. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d overheard him telling Blaine Campbell that he wasn’t marrying anyone. Ever. She faintly remembered him saying something in the ambulance when the paramedic had mistaken her for his bride. She’d been in and out of consciousness, so she hadn’t picked up on his words but on his tone. He had been appalled that someone had mistaken him for a groom.

At the moment she could relate as she glanced down at her hand again. She wanted to take off the ring. She couldn’t believe she was engaged. It didn’t feel right.

“If you two don’t get going, you won’t have any honeymoon experience, either,” Dalton warned them.

Claire glanced at her. “But I could help...”

“I have help,” Dalton said. He wrapped his arm around the young bride and steered her toward the doorway. “I know you two can’t stand spending time together, but you’re going to have to suck it up for the next fifty or sixty years.”

The newlyweds chuckled—confident in their love and their relationship.

She glanced down at her ring again. Why would she be wearing this when she obviously hadn’t felt that way about whoever had put the ring on her finger? But then, a love like the Strykers’ was rare and special.

“It was nice meeting you,” Claire called back to her.

She had met Claire. She wasn’t sure if they’d met her—because she wasn’t sure who she was, except not Jane or Mercedes. But maybe she would need to start thinking of herself as one of those names since she was unlikely to ever remember her own. She waved at them. “Enjoy your honeymoon.”

The Strykers both hugged Dalton before leaving. He stared after them a moment, as if tempted to call them back, before he turned back to her.

“Who is your help?” she asked. While it would have been selfish to keep them from their honeymoon, she would have trusted the Strykers to help her.

“Trooper Littlefield is going to stand guard in your room,” he told her, “while I go to Chicago to follow up a lead.”

“Littlefield?” she asked.

Was that the trooper whose car had been stolen? Because of that and because something about him or his uniform was vaguely, unsettlingly familiar to her, she wouldn’t feel particularly safe with him. But then, she didn’t feel particularly safe with anyone but Dalton.

“He’s a good officer,” Dalton assured her. “He’s the one who called me when he noticed the vintage Mercedes. He knew something wasn’t right about it.”

Her in the trunk—that was what hadn’t been right about it. What if he hadn’t seen the car? What if Dalton hadn’t stopped it?

She would be dead. She was certain of it. She shuddered with the realization that someone out there wanted her dead. What kind of person was she that someone could hate her enough to try to kill her more than once...?

“Are you okay?” Dalton asked, his voice even deeper with concern. “Claire didn’t upset you, did she?”

She shook her head. Claire hadn’t upset her, but meeting the other woman had. “I just wish...”

“What?” he asked.

“I wish I knew what kind of person I am,” she said. “If I’m like her...” Or if she was someone who’d earned another person’s hatred? “I just wish I knew who I am...”

“You may not know your name,” Dalton said, “but you know who are you are—you’re strong and smart and brave.”

But she felt like none of those things. She was terrified—terrified of the person determined to kill her, terrified to be away from Dalton Reyes and terrified to find out who she really was.

* * *

ALL HE’D HAD to do was bide his time. Eventually the dark-haired agent had left—along with the other federal agents. They weren’t bodyguards; they were investigators.

He wasn’t worried about what they would find. He’d been careful so that nothing could be traced back to him. Not even her...

But still she had to die.

And it would be easier for him to kill her now that the agent was gone. He’d left behind the bald-headed trooper for her protection.

All he’d had to do was wait him out. With the amount of coffee the man drank, it was inevitable that he would leave her to use the restroom. He was waiting for him there—hiding inside a stall.

He waited until the trooper was preoccupied at the urinal before he stepped out. The trooper didn’t have a chance to pull his gun—to catch more than a shadowy movement in the mirrored wall—before he struck him. Hard. Harder than he’d even struck her.

As the trooper dropped to the tile floor, he dropped the bloodied pipe next to him. He was wearing gloves, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. He was careful to leave no evidence behind. Anywhere.

He reached for the buttons on the trooper’s uniform. Dressed like the trooper, he would have no trouble getting into her room and finishing the job he’d started. He looked quite official in uniform—every bit the lawman he’d always hated. He grinned at his reflection in the mirrored wall.

The woman was going to be dead soon.

Very soon...

Chapter Six (#ulink_339a167b-3a3f-5cb0-b195-17a38da8e031)

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dalton asked. He glanced over at the passenger’s seat to check on her. He expected to find her eyes closed as she rested or passed out from exhaustion. She had been through so much—had lost so much blood.

But the doctor had assured him that it would be all right to take her out of the hospital. And she had insisted that she was strong enough to be released.

Maybe she was right. She wasn’t sleeping or passed out. She leaned forward, straining against her seat belt, as she stared through the windshield. She had studied every street and building between the rural area of lower western Michigan and the urban skyline of Chicago as if trying to recognize it or hoping something might jog her memory.

The bridge rattled beneath the tires of the SUV as Dalton drove over the Chicago Skyway into the city. “Anything familiar?”

She groaned.

“I thought this would be too much for you,” he said. “You should have stayed at the hospital with Trooper Littlefield protecting you.” The local lawman had been offended when Dalton had asked him to protect an empty room. He thought that Dalton didn’t trust him anymore.

That hadn’t been the case at all, though.

He was pretty certain that the killer was watching her and waiting for another opportunity to get to her. So Dalton had wanted him to think that she was still at the hospital—still protected.

Instead of alone with just him for protection. But Blaine was on standby. Dalton could call him in or several other agents for backup...if he needed it. But nobody had followed him. He had taken a circuitous route and had kept a vigilant watch on the SUV’s rearview mirror. So he was certain they had no tail. But her attacker was the least of his concerns at the moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Her skin had grown pale again, making her red hair look even brighter and more vibrant. She had exchanged her hospital gown for clothes that Dalton had bought and sneaked into her room. She wore tan pants and a pale yellow blouse. There were other clothes in a small bag in the backseat, too. It had bothered her that she hadn’t been able to buy them herself. But along with her identity, her money and credit cards had been lost, too.

With obvious reluctance, she admitted, “My head is starting to hurt again.”

“Should I take you to a hospital?” he asked with alarm, even as he mentally clocked the distance to the closest one.

“No, the headache is my fault,” she said. “I think I’m trying too hard to remember—to find something familiar.”

His tension eased somewhat. Maybe she wasn’t medically in danger. But how about emotionally?

“Have you found anything familiar?” he asked.

“It’s Chicago,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone know what Chicago looks like—just like they know what New York looks like? It doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ve ever lived there or even been there. Maybe they just saw it on TV so many times or in movies or described in books that it feels familiar.”

“So it does feel familiar to you,” he deduced.

She uttered a small groan of frustration. “I just don’t know...”

“Close your eyes for a few minutes,” he suggested. “Relax.” He didn’t want her hurting herself.

She must have been exhausted, because she took his advice, but her rest didn’t last long. When he pulled into the downtown parking garage, she opened her eyes. “We’re here?”