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unisex bathroom at the side of the building. The door didn’t actually close all the way and there wasn’t any toilet paper, but all she needed was the flickering light, the mirror below it and a trickle of water. She cleaned her face of dirt and blood, and carefully washed her abraded hands. No way to get around the fact that she’d been near the explosion, but that didn’t matter—as one of the Captain’s people she had reason to be there. She’d just have to hope her semicaptive interloper hadn’t noticed the exact nature of her injuries, because she hadn’t thought to hide them.
Her clean face made a big difference, although even in the bad light Sam could tell she was pale. She left herself that way—no reason she shouldn’t be, given the circumstances. She sleeked her hair, faded her freckles, and eased the flaring angle of her jaw. Her hair lost the bright edge of its copper sheen, grew sleeker. She hesitated, looking at herself, her torn turtleneck, her wary eyes…fighting the impulse to change herself to someone else entirely rather than face this man so close to her real self. But she didn’t hesitate long. She’d best stick to a guise she could hold even under the greatest duress. This one, she could hold even through sleep.
Someone pounded on the door. “C’mon, bitch, go to the Y if you want personal time.”
Sam shoved her way out, responding with casualcrudity and a sneer that made the waiting woman step back, well-versed in the ways of don’t tread on me here on the streets. The woman was frightened…probably looking for a way to hide from the cops who must be streaming into the area by now.
On the other hand, Sam had heard her through the door clearly enough. Maybe she’d be able to count on her hearing after all. She struck out for her stashed interloper, her game face in place, her purpose clear. Learn what he knows.
And after that, get rid of him.
Jethro leaned against the cold brick wall and waited for his ears to stop ringing. They didn’t.
This is what people do to one another. Lies and running and hurting one another, leaving tangled trails like the one Jethro now tried to follow. What had Lizbet gotten herself into? And dammit, how much simpler it would have been if she’d just been honest about it. Until now, he’d been hoping—foolishly and futilely enough—that he’d somehow been fast enough to find her in that first refuge, the entry station of the underground railroad.
Now he hoped she wasn’t anywhere near. A car bomb, for God’s sake.
His head pounded and he avoided focusing on the dark features of the alley around him; it only made his vision swim and there wasn’t anything worth looking at anyway. But his nosebleed had stopped and he’d been in enough rugby wrecks to know his head would clear soon enough.
She came around the corner at a fast clip, stopping short when she saw he stood right where the hooker had left him, her body language full of relief.
And he recognized her right away.
Except then he didn’t. Then she didn’t quite look like the woman in his pictures at all. That woman had been full of spark and eye-catching features; this woman was blander. More boring. Pasteurized and processed. Even the flare of her hip and rounded curve of her bottom had somehow gone…less so. He barely stopped himself from reaching out to touch her, hunting tactile proof of those differences.
A sister, perhaps. Or maybe just his unsteady vision.
He gestured at himself two-handed. See? I waited. Now I want something for it.
She said, “I need to know how you learned about the Captain’s house.”
“Hi,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jethro Sheridan.”
Not, it should be said, that he truly cared about an introduction. But it made a point.
She got it, too. “Jeth,” she said. “I’m Sam. And I’m afraid what’s going on here tonight is too important to dance around with conversational niceties.”
“Jethro,” he corrected her. “And
Her clean face made a big difference, although even in the bad light Sam could tell she was pale. She left herself that way—no reason she shouldn’t be, given the circumstances. She sleeked her hair, faded her freckles, and eased the flaring angle of her jaw. Her hair lost the bright edge of its copper sheen, grew sleeker. She hesitated, looking at herself, her torn turtleneck, her wary eyes…fighting the impulse to change herself to someone else entirely rather than face this man so close to her real self. But she didn’t hesitate long. She’d best stick to a guise she could hold even under the greatest duress. This one, she could hold even through sleep.
Someone pounded on the door. “C’mon, bitch, go to the Y if you want personal time.”
Sam shoved her way out, responding with casualcrudity and a sneer that made the waiting woman step back, well-versed in the ways of don’t tread on me here on the streets. The woman was frightened…probably looking for a way to hide from the cops who must be streaming into the area by now.
On the other hand, Sam had heard her through the door clearly enough. Maybe she’d be able to count on her hearing after all. She struck out for her stashed interloper, her game face in place, her purpose clear. Learn what he knows.
And after that, get rid of him.
Jethro leaned against the cold brick wall and waited for his ears to stop ringing. They didn’t.
This is what people do to one another. Lies and running and hurting one another, leaving tangled trails like the one Jethro now tried to follow. What had Lizbet gotten herself into? And dammit, how much simpler it would have been if she’d just been honest about it. Until now, he’d been hoping—foolishly and futilely enough—that he’d somehow been fast enough to find her in that first refuge, the entry station of the underground railroad.
Now he hoped she wasn’t anywhere near. A car bomb, for God’s sake.
His head pounded and he avoided focusing on the dark features of the alley around him; it only made his vision swim and there wasn’t anything worth looking at anyway. But his nosebleed had stopped and he’d been in enough rugby wrecks to know his head would clear soon enough.
She came around the corner at a fast clip, stopping short when she saw he stood right where the hooker had left him, her body language full of relief.
And he recognized her right away.
Except then he didn’t. Then she didn’t quite look like the woman in his pictures at all. That woman had been full of spark and eye-catching features; this woman was blander. More boring. Pasteurized and processed. Even the flare of her hip and rounded curve of her bottom had somehow gone…less so. He barely stopped himself from reaching out to touch her, hunting tactile proof of those differences.
A sister, perhaps. Or maybe just his unsteady vision.
He gestured at himself two-handed. See? I waited. Now I want something for it.
She said, “I need to know how you learned about the Captain’s house.”
“Hi,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jethro Sheridan.”
Not, it should be said, that he truly cared about an introduction. But it made a point.
She got it, too. “Jeth,” she said. “I’m Sam. And I’m afraid what’s going on here tonight is too important to dance around with conversational niceties.”
“Jethro,” he corrected her. “And