Page 2 of Protected from Malice (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #1)

Sweet Adam stands there for a minute, watching me pull out of my spot before lifting his hand in a little wave. In response, I flash my headlights and give the horn a quick beep as I pull away.

Lucky Wendy , I can’t help thinking as I make my way through the parking lot and onto the road.

Not because I’m interested in Adam—he’s nice, but definitely not my type—but because she has a boyfriend who clearly cares about her.

Who talks about her like she’s the most amazing woman in the world and looks like he can’t believe how lucky he is to be with her.

I’ve given the whole dating thing a shot, but it hasn’t worked out. Setups by people at work, random meet-cutes in the library or gym, and during one particularly brave moment, even a foray into online dating. It’s not that all the guys were losers. They weren’t. Some were nice. Cute. Smart.

But.

None of them could match up to the one man I’ve had on a pedestal for years.

A man who has everything I want.

Not cute. Not conventionally attractive. But darkly handsome, with the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen. One green and one brown; both of them intense and piercing.

Tall and muscular, but there’s a leanness to him. Like he’d be equally comfortable lifting heavy weights or sprinting undetected through enemy territory.

Intricate tattoos decorate his arms and chest, which I never found sexy until I met him.

His deep, rumbly voice sends shivers through my body whenever he talks.

He comes across as gruff. Unfriendly, even, if you don’t know him.

But I’ve seen enough to know he has a deeply-hidden sensitive side. Like those days in the hospital after Indy was hurt, when even tough Rafe couldn’t hide his worry.

Rafe .

The one man who makes all the rest seem like… not enough.

But Rafe is in Texas. Or he’s bouncing around the country, chasing after fugitives for his job as a bounty hunter. He texts at least once a month to check in, but he never visits. Never even mentions the idea of it.

Why would he, though? It was one thing when Indy brought Rafe along. But now that Indy’s turned into a recluse and never goes anywhere, there’s no reason for me to see Rafe anymore.

And anyway, in Rafe’s mind, I’m just the little sister. Someone he swore to look after if anything happened to Indy, but no more than an obligation.

Although he still calls. Texts. It might only be once a month, but it’s always like clockwork.

And he doesn’t just ask about Indy. He asks about my job.

If I’m liking living on the west coast after spending most of my life on the other side of the country.

He even remembers to ask about the cryptic crosswords I love to do, quizzing me on how many I’ve solved since the last time we talked.

I just wish?—

A blast of light grabs my attention, nearly blinding me as I glance in the rearview mirror at it.

With rush hour over, the road is darker than usual, so the headlights behind me are particularly bright in comparison.

For a second, I brush them aside as nothing out of the ordinary.

Just an impatient driver racing to get home, oblivious or uncaring that their brights are still on. Perhaps thinking that by tailgating me, they’ll somehow get me to drive faster.

Or maybe they think the aggressive driving will convince me to pull over to let them speed on by.

Both annoying reasons, but nothing surprising.

But I’m not speeding up, not when I’m already driving five miles over the speed limit. And on this unlit road with a narrow shoulder, I’m not terribly eager to pull off it. Especially not for some rude person who can’t take an extra five minutes to get home.

So I keep my speed steady. Try to ignore the lights closing in behind me. Turn my mind to other things, like what I’m going to do when I get home.

Take a quick shower, of course. Then a frozen dinner, since I don’t have the energy to prepare an entire meal from scratch just for me.

I’ll spend a couple hours on the couch, watching cooking shows—which Indy always makes fun of me for, since I’m most definitely not a good cook—and working on my newest puzzle book.

Maybe I’ll text Zada to see how she’s doing.

What I won’t do?

Spend the night peering out the window, searching for suspicious cars driving by.

Incessantly check my security cameras to make sure they’re still working.

Hold my breath every time I hear a strange sound, feeling foolish when I realize seconds later that it was something as simple as the ice machine kicking on or the water pipes creaking.

I’m not doing any of those things. Not tonight.

I’m going to focus on all the normal, comforting things. Wearing my favorite cozy sweats and the old Army sweatshirt Indy gave me. Watching people stress about nothing more serious than cookies going flat or a cake cracking. Finishing my current cryptic crossword and possibly starting a new one.

And I’m going to keep telling myself that everything is just fine until I believe it.

Except.

Are the headlights getting even closer?

Brighter?

Can I actually hear the roar of the engine from the car behind me?

My heart lurches as I realize the answer to all three questions is yes.

And the car—no, not a car, a pickup truck with the front plate missing—is speeding up.

Closing in on me.

The headlights are so bright they illuminate the inside of my car, showing my white-knuckled fingers clutching the wheel.

Just an aggressive driver , I remind myself. There are plenty of them out there .

Just keep driving. Don’t panic. The next turnoff is three miles ahead, so all I have to do is make it to there .

Or should I pull over? Let them go by?

Unless that’s what they want?

Unless this is one of those terrifying plots I’ve read about, where criminals lurk on empty roads just waiting for an innocent driver to come by. Where they wait until the person pulls over, then attack them. Rob them. Assault?—

God.

My pulse is an entire percussion section echoing in my head.

My chest constricts.

Breathing seems an impossibility.

Behind me, the truck puts on another burst of speed.

Its bumper comes within kissing distance of mine.

Cold sweat breaks out all over my body.

The wheel goes slick in my hands.

I cast a frantic glance around me, searching, hoping for someone else to come along.

But it’s just me and the truck.

The truck that?—

My car jerks forward as the truck bumps into me.

Not hard, but enough to make the steering wheel shake. Hard enough for the seatbelt to dig into my chest. For the tires to skid.

Hard enough for me to fear an actual heart attack.

I don’t think this is someone hurrying to get home.

I think…

My heart flies into my throat as the truck bumps me again.

Instinctively, I jam my foot down on the gas, desperate to get away. Desperate to put some distance between us before the next hit. Because I have a sick feeling they’re not going to stop.

I’m ten miles above the speed limit. Fifteen. Twenty.

Where’s the next turn?

How close is my?—

Oh, crap.

I can’t lead them straight to my house.

Fear surges through me, more intense and all-encompassing than I can remember in a long time.

Not since?—

No. I can’t go there right now.

The headlights loom behind me as fiery eyes glaring. Menacing.

Panic threatens to take over. I can feel the warning signs. The numb feeling in my hands. The tightness in my chest. The floaty sensation in my head.

No.

This time it’s a command.

No .

I’m smarter than this.

Indy trained me better than this.

Like pieces of a puzzle slotting together, a memory comes to me.

It had to be six years ago, back when I was still living in Boston.

Indy came to visit with Rafe, and we got to talking about some of their specialized training.

Rafe mentioned some tactical driving skills they’d learned, and I was immediately interested.

Not because I ever thought I’d need them, but the idea intrigued me.

Plus, we’d just watched one of those Fast and the Furious movies the guys liked so much, so it seemed relevant.

I asked them to teach me, so we drove out to a huge parking lot at a closed-down shopping mall. And they taught me skills like evasive reversing and bootleg turns, so, in theory, I could escape if I was being chased.

Like now.

I did the turns perfectly back in the parking lot. But can I do one now, in the dark, with a giant truck right behind me? While I’m shaking with fear and on the verge of heart failure?

In the moments I hesitate, debating, the truck closes in again.

I chance a quick glance in the rearview mirror, hoping to see the driver, but it’s just a wall of blinding white.

Just do it.

Do the bootleg turn, just like Indy—no, it was Rafe, actually, who demonstrated it, and it was so sexy?—

Don’t think about Rafe right now.

Just do it.

Now.

Taking a deep breath, I force my mind into clinical, problem-solving mode.

Into the mode I used during all of my college exams. During my PhD dissertation defense.

During the proposal meetings when I argued for my current project, explaining all the reasons it should be prioritized for funding over all the others.

Then, on a silent prayer, I do just as I was taught.

Let off the gas, even though it’s terrifying to do it.

Steer into the turn. Pull the emergency brake.

Wait for the balance of the car to shift.

Then release. Continue into the turn. And now that I’m facing the opposite direction, gun it. Foot to the floor, driving as fast as I can.

It all happens in a blink.

All on a held breath.

Only when I’m speeding back down the road, the truck no more than two small taillights in the mirror, do my lungs start working again.

I gasp for air, sucking it in between shuddering sobs.

That wasn’t in my head. It couldn’t have been.

The other stuff, maybe. The other stuff I thought I saw could have been paranoia. Nasty, lingering symptoms of PTSD.

But this?

I’m still driving too fast when a new set of lights comes speeding up behind me.

This time, they’re flashing red.

Not the truck. The police.

As I wait for the cop to walk over to my car, hope flickers to life.

Maybe they can find the truck driver. They can go back and somehow… track it. Find traffic camera footage or something. Take a sample of the paint on the back of my car and run it through forensics. Something .

But fifteen minutes later, my hopes have been definitively crushed.

The cop didn’t care about my story.

He took one look at me crying and assumed I was just trying to get out of a ticket.

“If you knew how many times I heard sob stories like that,” he told me with a stony expression. “You were speeding. End of story. No tears are going to change that.”

When I begged him to look at my bumper, he completely dismissed me.

“A couple little scratches,” he scoffed.

“No paint residue. That could be from anything. Backing into a guardrail. A lamppost.” Then he glared at me.

“Go home. Follow the speed limit. And then you won’t have to break out the crocodile tears. ”

So that was…

Pretty terrible, really.

This time I take the slower route home. Partly because I’m still terrified the truck will come back. And partly because I can’t stop crying, so with the well-lit roads it’s easier to see. As I drive, I run through everything I know. Contemplate what I should do next.

I could go back to the police. But what if they dismiss me again?

I could call Indy for advice. But that’ll mean worrying him. Scaring him. He’ll want to come out to Oregon right away, and while I’d like that in normal circumstances, these aren’t it.

And what if the truck incident was random? Just me in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if it has nothing to do with the weird feeling I’ve had over the last month? What if the weird feeling is irrational paranoia?

When I finally get home, I pull into my garage—attached, thankfully—and stay in my car until the garage door is closed firmly. Then I get out to look at the rear bumper for myself.

Crap.

The cop was right. There’s no paint. Just some scratches that could be from anything.

And now that I’m thinking about it, the truck had a metal bumper. So it wouldn’t leave paint behind, anyway.

Double crap.

Hurrying into the house, I turn on all the lights and triple-check the doors and windows. Then I check the security cameras at the front and rear doors. And then I grab my pepper spray and taser and huddle on the couch, wrapping one of my throw blankets around me while I shiver.

Tears are still leaking down my cheeks.

My heart is thrumming hummingbird-fast.

I need to talk to someone about this.

Someone I trust.

So I grab my phone and dial one of the few numbers I’ve memorized.

After one ring, he picks up.

“Eden?” It’s rough. Worried. “Are you okay? Is something going on with Indy?”

Just the sound of Rafe’s achingly familiar voice is enough to bring a fresh flood of tears.

“Rafe.” My voice is so small. Wobbly. Scared.

“Shit, Eden.” Hurried footsteps sound on the other end of the line, followed by the hollow clunk of a car door closing. “What’s wrong?”

A sob tries to burst out, but I swallow it. “It’s not Indy. It’s… it’s…”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “What’s going on? Are you crying?”

“No.”

Yes.

“Eden. You’re freaking me out here. Tell me.”

“I… I’m not sure. Something happened tonight. Someone followed me. Almost ran me off the road. And?—”

“Fuck!” Rafe utters a string of muttered curses. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” I reply. “I just don’t know… Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it was random. But things have been happening…”

“Did you call Indy?”

I shake my head before I remember Rafe can’t see me. “No. I don’t want to worry him. Not if it’s nothing. You know how he is. I just thought… maybe you could give me some advice. Or… I don’t know. Maybe you know someone around here who could help?”

An engine rumbles to life in the background. Then he says, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

My heart jumps. “You will?”

“Of course I will.” Rafe’s voice gentles. “Anytime you need me, Eden, I’ll always come.”