The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Shit. Shit. Double shit. Shit.”

“Language,” the woman beside him said, sounding far too prim for someone who still had a Glock in her hand and—Oh shit, he realized. She still had his Glock in her hand.

“I’ll take that.” Sawyer grabbed the gun with his right hand and reached for her with his left, felt her delicate fingers interlace with his even though that had to be sloppy tradecraft. Hand-holding. It served no purpose whatsoever and slowed reaction times by at least a second. But her fingers were like ice and her eyes were huge, and she was shaking despite the orange-red flames that were breaking through the—

Oh right. Flames. Windows. Explosion. That’s what made Sawyer pull his gaze from hers and drag her to the end of the alley.

“Uh . . . what just happened?” It was a fair question, but he was still too mad to answer.

“Shit! That was my second favorite safe house.”

And that seemed to be the thing that threw her because she blurted, “You have two safe houses?”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, lady, I have way more than two. That was just my second favorite.”

Black smoke billowed behind them, and sirens blared in the distance, coming this way fast, so Sawyer let go of her hand and tugged off his cap—crammed it in his pocket—and threw an arm around her shoulders because that was actual tradecraft.

Covers come in all shapes and sizes, and right then the best place to hide was in the middle of the sidewalk. Head down. Beautiful woman beside him. Looking to all the world like two lovers taking a stroll through falling snow.

“Just try to look natural,” he told her.

“None of this is natural!” she shouted, then gave the quietest scream he’d ever heard.

“Okay. Maybe try a little harder than that.”

He pulled her tighter against him and felt her sink into his side. Maybe because she understood the cover but more than likely because she was simply exhausted. Hell, even he was tired and he wasn’t walking around on stilts and with a concussion.

He wouldn’t have blamed her for complaining or arguing or just lying down in the street and giving up, but she kept walking on those impossible heels, and he knew, suddenly, that Alex wasn’t the only tough one in the family. With every icy step his respect for her grew a little more.

“So what was that back there?” she asked when they reached the end of the block.

He didn’t let himself look back. “Kozlov likes motion-sensitive booby traps—the kind that go boom with a little vibration.”

“Boom?” she echoed, sounding very young and very sleepy. Damn concussions.

“Boom.”

“So now we go to one of your other safe houses? Maybe one that’s close? And warm? And full of food and first aid essentials?”

She sounded so hopeful—like there was some place on Earth where they’d both be truly safe. But Sawyer had learned a long time ago that safety wasn’t just an illusion—it was a lie. And it would get you killed.

“Now we go to Plan B.” He steered her toward a sidewalk café. The tables had been cleared of snow and set with crisp white linens but no one looked twice as he pulled a butter knife from a tray and slid it up his sleeve in one smooth motion.

“Plan B requires a knife!”

“Calm down. It’s a butter knife. On a scale from one to machete, butter knife is down . . .” He gestured toward the ground and risked a glance at her.

“That’s what has me worried.”

Honey-colored hair fell across her shoulders in a wave, and the beret sat on her head at a jaunty angle that served to hide her growing bruise. She was bundled tightly inside that cashmere coat, the belt tied with a flourish, so all in all she didn’t look like a woman on the run. She didn’t even look like Alex, which was the idea, of course. But it made him forget who she was and why she was with him.

That’s the risk you run with covert operations—not that you’ll forget your lies but that, someday, you’ll start to believe them.

They weren’t a couple out for a walk in the snow. They hadn’t woken up naked and sated and spooned together beneath the weight of a warm duvet. And yet there she was—gazing up at him with her big green eyes and rosy cheeks . . . She looked so pure and good that it was like biting into something way too sweet. Sawyer wasn’t used to it. He felt his breath catch. But that was probably because of the cold. Or the smoke. Or both.

She pulled the balm from her pocket and ran it across her lips—rubbed them together for good measure.

Yeah. It was definitely both.

“Trust me, there’s no need to be worried,” he told her.

“Oh?” She brightened.

“You should be terrified,” he said then pulled her toward Plan B, praying like hell that he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.