Page 24 of Rescued By the Operative

When we eventually reach the last leg of the tunnel, I find that Jake wasn’t lying. It really does start with a legit abandoned mine shaft. Before long, I find myself outside, staring at a creek amidst a stand of trees in a massive grassy field. Nearby is a beat-up farm truck.

“Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”

“I was just going to walk to the highway and hitch a ride,” I lie.

“It’s a big ranch. You’ll be walking over half a mile before you hit a road. Let me drive you to town at least.”

Reluctantly, I take him up on the offer, and we drive over the bumpy, rutted path until I think I might be sick to my stomach.

Eventually, we connect to a smoother dirt path and then the ranch’s main driveway. In the distance, I can see Agent William’s SUV headed this way, pulling over to the side of the road.

“You can let me out here,” I say. “Thanks, Ennis.”

He tries to hand me a wad of cash, but I pretend I don’t see it, and I’m sprinting toward the road, putting this interaction behind me.

Agent Williams is his usual grumpy self as I hop in, and I have to hold on to the grab bar as he does a violent 180-degree turn and drives the car back toward town.

“I told you that was a bad idea,” he says. “Someone saw you.”

“He thinks I’m a cult member who escaped.”

Carl grumbles something about me being harder to herd than a hundred head of cattle, and I decide not to take offense at that.

Nate’s Coffee Shop is busy tonight with an event going on. There’s sure to be a line.

“I’m going to get some coffee. Want anything? Why don’t you come with me?”

Carl shakes his head. “It’s not time yet.”

“What? What does that mean?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

“You’re still holding something back. I can tell.”

His face remains unreadable. I give up and go inside. Carl will circle the small downtown until I’m ready. We’ve almost got the timing down to a science.

Inside Nate’s, there’s a lively book club with wine, beer, and a fantastic-looking cheese tray that makes the watery potato soup I had seem inedible.

I try not to stare as my stomach rumbles.

I try not to look jealous as I wish I had time to read books. Or make friends. Or attend club meetings.

The FBI is my life. Socially, emotionally, it takes up all of my time. How sad is it that I can’t even carry on a proper casual sexual relationship outside of a spontaneous hookup in a mine shaft with a horny, lonely cowboy?

The barista I wanted to talk to isn’t here.

I’m waiting for my extra-tall almond milk salted caramel Frappuccino with an extra shot when I hear the voice behind me.

“Hey, Blondie.”

I don’t have to turn around. I know it’s him. Jake.

I don’t allow myself to react. I don’t turn around.

Because he means nothing to me.

He’s hell bent on blowing my cover.