Moving Target (Target #3)(15)

Her mouth turns mulish, but then her stomach rumbles and she caves. While she eats, I choose my words with care.

“My cousin Benjamin can find no trail—physical or digital—of a demand for a woman who fits your description. Your skin is pale enough, but your hair…” I shrug. “And your age is a factor as well.”

“Yay for thirty and being a brunette.” She tucks into the bacon, eggs, and fruit, nearly devouring two plates worth.

Her appetite is back, and I couldn’t be more pleased. “However, I plan to meet with him in Milan. It’s a nearly two hours away, so the ride should be tolerable for you.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes, things are best said in person.”

“True.”

I lean against the dresser. “What can you tell me about your family?”

“Just your average family. One mom. Divorced. One dad. Died in a freak accident while skiing. I don’t remember him. One stepdad, but he divorced my mom last year. No siblings.”

“And your husband’s?”

“Mario’s family pretty much cut him out of their life when he came out to them. They didn’t care when he got sick, said he deserved it.”

That’s something I didn’t expect to hear. “Yet, you married him.”

“I did, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. He was the best friend I ever had, and he loved me more than anyone else I’ve ever known. He cherished me.”

Sharp claws of jealousy rake at my heart. “He treated you well then.”

“Yes.” She wipes her mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’m ready to go.”

“You said you spent your twenties taking care of him.”

“I did,” she agrees tightly. “He started getting sick about eight months after you and I… met.”

“You married a man with a death sentence?” I don’t ask to make light, and I don’t seek to make a fool out of her. I am truly stunned at her sacrifice.

“He needed someone to take care of him, to advocate for him. His family was unwilling, so I stepped up. I became his wife, his caretaker… his everything.”

His lover? I want to ask.

However, it is none of my business. I rub my thumb across my bottom lip. “This explains nothing. Human trafficking is only because of two reasons—a demand for product or revenge on an enemy.”

“I don’t have any enemies.”

“Mario was in the CIA,” I point out.

“Mario had to quit the CIA. Could he really have made that many enemies that they would have come after him or his family, even after his death?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She pales. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”



Chloe doesn’t speak to me until we’re halfway to Milan. “Can we stop? I need to stretch my legs and take of things.”

“Of course.” I take the next exit, stopping at a small petrol station.

“Is it safe for me to go alone?” she asks, her hand on the door handle.

“Not sure.” I get out of the car. She does the same. “You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

I watch her walk away, her hips swaying seductively in the dark jeans. I’m not the only man to notice this, but beyond the normal appreciation of a beautiful woman, I don’t detect anything sinister.

A black Mercedes pulls up beside me, slowing as the window lowers. Reaching for my gun, I’m fully prepared to shoot, but a weathered-looking hand waves at me.

“Sorry to bother you,” the man says in broken English. “Is this the way to Milan?”

“Yes. You’re halfway there.”

A look of relief covers his face. “Thank you.”

I nod, waiting for him to drive away. While he looks harmless, something doesn’t feel right to me.

The window raises and the man drives off, easing into traffic. Once he’s around the bend, I release the hold on my gun, lock my car, and walk inside.

Chloe bumps into me. “I’m done. Can we get a snack?”

“Sure.” That strange feeling still in me, I urge Chloe to hurry in her selections and pay for our purchase with cash.

That feeling grows stronger and stronger as we walk outside.

“Crap.” Chloe grabs my sleeve. “I think I have a rock in my boot. Can you hang on a minute?”

“You have ten seconds.” We need to leave. We have to—

I hear a soft beeping sound and grab Chloe, forcing her behind a concrete planter.

“What the—?”

An explosion rocks the ground.

Chloe screams, her eyes tightly closing.

Time seems to slow down as I simultaneously try to protect her and figure out what’s happening.

Glancing up, I see my car hovering in the air, fire surrounding it. It slams back to the ground. Glass flying everywhere.

Time returns to normal.

People are screaming.

Sirens are blaring.

The woman under me is shaking.

“We have to go.”

“What was that?” she asks as I help her to a standing position.

“My car.”

Her face pales. “Was that supposed to happen with us in it?”

“Maybe not you, but definitely me.” I grab her arm, searching the parking lot for an easy getaway. In the corner, I see a motorcycle. Two helmets are conveniently placed on the seat. “You’ve ever ridden a bike before?”