Rules of Protection (Tangled in Texas #1)(13)

I had refused the FBI’s protection and demanded to go home, but had since changed my mind. Someone flinging bullets at you tends to have that effect. He already knew, but he wanted to make me eat crow. I seriously doubted it tasted anything like chicken.

I sighed. “Are you going to tell me how the stupid program works or not?”

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. He turned around and drove us out of the lot. “Okay, in exchange for your testimony, you’ll be entered into Witness Protection. You’ll receive a new identity, be relocated to a safe house, and given twenty-four hour protection since it’s a high-threat situation. FBI and U.S. Marshals are assisting each other on this case.”

“Then what happens?”

“We put the bad guy behind bars.”

“Sounds easy.”

“It is…for you. We have the hard part,” Jake said. “We have to keep you alive until then.”

“That going to be a problem?”

“Nope. Everything’s under control.”

His reassurance should have put my mind at ease, but it didn’t. I may have been new to the program, but I wasn’t new to men. Jake was confident to a fault, which led me to believe he wasn’t telling me everything. In fact, I was sure of it. Nothing about this would be as easy as he said.

We drove for half an hour when Jake pulled into the parking lot of a run-down motel off I-74. The vacancy sign was half lit, and the landscaping consisted of weeds and spent cigarette butts.

“We’re here,” Jake announced.

“Does the FBI have a suggestion box?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you f*cking kidding me? Thirty minutes outside of town and a crappy motel is the FBI’s idea of relocating me to a safe house?”

The corners of Jake’s mouth threatened to erupt into a full-on smile. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. This is more of a transition station. Have a little more faith in us than that.” Jake got out and opened the back door, keeping his eyes alert as he shuffled me toward a nearby room.

A female agent awaited our arrival. She had on black slacks, a cream silk top, and a pair of chic horn-rimmed glasses. Nerdy, but she had great hair. She smiled at me warmly, then nodded to Jake.

“Agent Ward, I presume? I’m Agent Vickie Rawlings from the FBI’s Indianapolis Division. Two more agents, Agent Franklin and Agent Schafer, are with me. They’re posted outside for the time being.”

“I spotted them when we pulled in,” Jake told her.

Agent Rawlings motioned to me. “Well, are you ready to do this? I have everything we need.”

“Huh?”

“A new identity requires a new look. Lucky for you, my mother owned a hair salon, and I spent every weekend there until I graduated high school. I used to practice on my dolls when I was a child. Actually, you look like one of my old Barbie dolls with all that curly, blond hair.”

I glared at Jake. “You didn’t tell me I had to change my appearance.”

“You have to change your appearance,” he said, mocking me with monotone.

Rawlings grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back of the motel room. “It’ll be fine. You’ll love it when I’m finished.” She pushed me past the vanity and into the bathroom, closing the door with an echoing clang. It may as well have been the cell door closing on my freedom, leaving me with no control and completely at her mercy.

The tiny bathroom didn’t have a mirror, so I couldn’t see what she was doing. My scalp tingled, and the dye smelled caustic, but the color stayed a mystery. Leftover purple gunk in the bowl fueled images of me as a punk rocker sporting a Mohawk.

When it was time to rinse, Rawlings stepped out and came back in with a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup. I wanted to peek in the mirror outside the bathroom door, but didn’t want Jake to see me with a towel draped over my shoulders and hair glued to my head. I was sure I looked as stupid as I felt.

Rawlings rinsed my hair over the tub, toweled it, and combed it before making the first cut. Every snip made me cringe as pieces of my now-brown hair fell to the floor, some segments at least ten inches long. I bit my lip to keep from crying.

Normally, I used a curling iron every day, since my hair is naturally pin straight. When she stopped cutting and blow-dried my hair, Rawlings suggested I keep it that way as part of my new look. My head felt strangely light, as if she’d shaved me bald.

Rawlings stepped back, admiring her work. “Done. You can look now.”

Reluctantly, I opened the door, letting her lead the way, and was glad when I realized Jake wasn’t still in the room. I stepped over to the vanity mirror and peered at my reflection. My hair was a mousy brown color, and the layered cut sat barely past my shoulders. She had given me some face-framing pieces, blended them into the front layers, and added side swept bangs.

“I look like you,” I told her, admiring my cut.

“That’s the point,” she replied, handing me a bag. “Here, now put these on.”

We stepped back into the bathroom, and I opened the bag, half-expecting an ugly turtleneck or a pair of hideous polyester pants. Surprisingly enough, I found the exact outfit Rawlings wore, including a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Rawlings changed into my clothes, stuffed her own outfit into the bag, and put on a long, curly blond wig she adjusted on her head. When she put on a Kevlar vest, that’s when it dawned on me. She was my decoy.