The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe heard the first squeal of the tires just as she saw the first swarm of men. And suddenly she was back in Paris, standing on a bridge, listening to Sawyer tell her to put her head down and keep moving. She was on the deck of the Shimmering Sea, promising that she would shoot to kill and not give it a second thought. She was standing on a snowy square in Zurich, knowing Sawyer could save himself—get out alive—but only if he didn’t have to save her, too.

Only if she saved herself.

So Zoe didn’t think, didn’t plan. She didn’t have time to worry. She just took off, running as fast as she could in high heels and leather pants. She didn’t care about the snow. She wasn’t thinking about the ice. And when the bus came barreling down the street, she darted out in front of it—heard the blaring of the horn and the screech of the tires—but Zoe didn’t even think about looking back. She just kept running, arms pumping, skidding around corners and down sidewalks.

She had to find cover.

She had to keep moving.

She had to be smart.

She couldn’t stop to think.

His voice wasn’t in her ear anymore, but Sawyer would be okay. Sawyer would find her—she’d find him. They’d find each other. A part of her had to think—had to believe—that they would always find each other. Everything would be okay—it had to be. But only if she got away.

Sirens were blaring in the distance but coming closer. Faster. Two cars were on her heels and bearing down. One jumped onto the sidewalk, sending pedestrians screaming and diving out of the way, so Zoe darted into a narrow alley. She heard the cars slam on the brakes when they couldn’t follow, but she kept running. Zoe had to keep running . . .

To the end of the alley and onto the next street. But when she glanced over her shoulder and saw she was alone she slowed to a walk. She jerked off the red wig and tossed it in a garbage can—fanned out her blonde hair and tried to blend into the tide of pedestrians walking home from work.

She could do this. She could disappear. And then she’d find Sawyer. And then everything would be okay again.

Except nothing was ever going to be okay again—she knew it as soon as she saw the line of SUVs slamming to a stop in front of her. Doors flying open. People shouting, “Freeze!”

She spun and tried to run in the opposite direction, but more police cars and SUVs filled the street behind her. She was officially surrounded. But still Zoe turned, looking, trying to find a way of getting back to Sawyer. And the cabin. And the life she’d had—for a little while. Because, at the moment, her life was nothing more than sore feet and chaffed thighs and too-bright headlights slicing through the night. She actually had to raise her hands to block the glare.

“Put your hands up, Alex. It’s over.”

My hands are up, she wanted to yell because . . . hello . . . glare blocking! Why wasn’t this dude paying attention?

But the man kept walking toward her slowly, like she was a lethal weapon, like any sane person would be scared but he was approaching her anyway because he was scarier.

“It’s time to come in, Alex,” the voice said, and something about the silhouette in that too-bright light made her start to sweat.

“We’re on the same side, remember?” He chuckled softly. “It’s okay, Alex. It’s over.”

“See?” Zoe tried. “About that . . . would you believe I’m not the spy you’re looking for?”

The man was close enough that she could see his eyes then. The cuts and bruises on his face—and something inside of Zoe went sideways. She actually felt the world tilt.

“I know you,” she said before she even realized it was true. Before she remembered . . . “You were on the train.”

His laugh was a cold, dry sound. “For a while.”

And she realized . . . “Ooh! I didn’t kill you!”

His smirk turned sinister as he reached behind him and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Forgive me if, this time, I’m not taking any chances. You’ve already done enough damage.”

Zoe tried to take some comfort in the fact that it was her—not Alex—who had knocked him down that mountain. It was Zoe who had hurt him. The last time the two of them had faced off, Zoe had won.

But it was hard to feel victorious when the headlights were so bright, and she was so scared. And Train Guy was so close, shouting “On your knees, Alex!” way too loudly—like he wanted all of Zurich to hear how tough he was.

But when Train Guy—no, Collins, she reminded herself; Sawyer had called him Collins—spoke again the words were softer, like they were in on a secret. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

It was the tone of his voice that did it. Suddenly, her head began to pound and the world began to spin—way too fast and far off center. She felt like she was on a merry-go-round that was out of control. Images flying by way too quickly—

Footprints on white sidewalks.

The Eiffel Tower, hazy behind a curtain of snow.

Collins flying from the train.

Sawyer smiling at her.

Sawyer reaching for her.

Sawyer.

Sawyer. He was the one fixed point in her whole world, the only thing keeping her from tipping over. She had to find Sawyer, save Sawyer. She had to—

“We have unfinished business, don’t we?”

She felt the man’s breath on her ear and his hands on her skin. He was so close. How had he gotten so close? And Zoe knew she was going to be sick. Really, truly sick. Because the pictures in her brain were a blur now, and she was so dizzy she thought she might fall down.

“No.” She was shaking her head. “I’m not Alex. I don’t know you. I don’t . . .”

A dark shadow sliced through the too-bright wall of light. Someone shouted, “Shit!,” as an engine roared. Tires squealed. And Zoe wondered if her brain was on fire—that would explain why there was suddenly so much smoke in the air.

The lights were spinning faster, and a loud screeching sound was making her ears bleed. All she wanted to do was push that man down another mountain, but how could she do that when she couldn’t even see him for the smoke—when she could barely breathe? When her head was splitting open and her eyes were seeing double because . . . wait.

Zoe really was seeing double, she realized. She must have been. Because there was suddenly another Zoe. This one was sitting on the motorcycle that had leapt over the line of SUVs and was currently spinning around and around, tires screeching and sending up a cloud of black smoke before slamming to a stop and looking at Zoe like she was a moron. Which she was.

Because one of them really was a badass spy. One of them really was a lethal and highly trained weapon. One of them was oh so obviously Alex. And she was staring at Zoe, disgust and annoyance on her face, as she shouted, “Get on!”

Part of Zoe wanted to lecture about helmets and brain trauma and the dangers of motorcycles in winter, but she was already throwing a leg over the bike and wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist—her sister’s waist.

And Alex was already hitting the throttle and zooming off into the night.