Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Read Online Free PDF Page B

doughnuts.
    “How’d you know?” Tara slid behind the wheel. She opened the doughnuts and demolished the first in two bites. The sugar dissolving on her tongue seemed to dissolve some of her bitter mood.
    “Okay, new plan,” Tara announced, firing up the Explorer. She started to pull out, then jabbed the brakes. “Son of a bitch.”
    “What?” M.J. glanced up.
    “Hardware store. Black pickup.”
    Tara watched the man as he loaded lumber into the truck bed. Tall, lean, mirrored shades. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she recognized the military-straight posture.
    “It’s him.” She looked at M.J.
    “Who?”
    “Liam Wolfe.”
    M.J. leaned forward and squinted. “How can you tell from here? I can hardly see his face.”
    “Trust me.”
    Tara watched, riveted by the sight of him. His size, his moves—the man oozed confidence from every pore. He strode around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.
    Tara drove to the opposite end of the lot as the black pickup pulled into traffic.
    “You’re going to follow him?” M.J. sounded alarmed.
    “Sure, why not?”
    Tara pulled out but hung back, allowing a few cars between herself and the truck. She didn’t need to get close because she knew where he was going. He got on the highway and headed south toward Dunn’s Landing.
    “But the ID isn’t confirmed yet,” M.J. said. “What if the victim isn’t Catalina Reyes?”
    “Either way, she’s missing, which is why we’re here. Liam Wolfe’s her bodyguard.”
    “ Was. ”
    “He might have some ideas for us.”
    Tara tailed the truck, which looked like so many others on the road. She would have expected more of a statement—something with souped-up hydraulics or maybe a Hummer. But it was your basic black pickup, one of countless in the Lone Star State.
    Tara studied the truck, memorizing the taillights, the chrome toolbox, the tinted back windows. The Chevy Silverado was a few years old. Loaded with lumber, it rode low to the ground.
    “You think he’s spotted us?” M.J. asked.
    “I sure hope so. He’s a security consultant.”
    The miles ticked by as they moved south on U.S. 59. Tara closed the gap and tried to read the license plate, but it was impossible to see with the wood hanging off the back.
    He shifted into the right lane and put on his turn indicator. Tara’s gaze narrowed. She’d never met the man, but she got the distinct impression that he was being a smartass.
    He exited the freeway and passed the old sawmill, then hooked a right. Tara stayed behind him, wending her way along the gravel road just like before. Only this time, when she reached the end, the black gates magically parted.
    Tara followed him through.

CHAPTER THREE

     
    T he gates slid shut behind her. Tara kept about thirty feet off his tailgate, close enough to watch his reflection in the side mirror.
    “Cameras,” M.J. said.
    “Where?”
    “Up in the trees.”
    Tara wasn’t looking at the trees. Her attention was fixed on that mirror, but once again sunglasses concealed his eyes.
    The trees gave way to a grassy clearing, and he swung a left. A house came into view.
    “Wow,” M.J. said.
    It wasn’t a house, really, but a lodge made of rough-hewn logs. One story, weathered wooden shingles. A wide breezeway connected two separate sections, each with a limestone chimney at the end. He drove past the building and pulled up to a row of trucks and SUVs with mud-caked tires.
    Tara went to the end of the row and parked beside a battered Suburban with a swamp-camo paint job.
    M.J. looked at her. “I hope you have a plan.”
    “We’ll improvise.”
    Tara slid from the Explorer and walked over to the man now getting out of the pickup. Black T-shirt, faded jeans. Not combat boots, as she would have expected, but shit kickers.
    “Liam Wolfe?” She strode up to him. “I’m Special Agent—”
    “I know who you are.”
    He watched her, his expression unreadable. Tara didn’t usually look up at men, but this one