She was being hunted, all right.
“Cassandra Armstrong is considered armed and dangerous. She should not be confronted. If you see her, you should call . . .” The news reporter quickly rattled off a number that Cassie was sure was also flashing on the screen at that moment.
“You don’t look dangerous to me,” the clerk said, frowning.
Appearances can be deceiving. “This isn’t your fight. Just step out of my way, and let me go.”
His hold tightened on the gun.
She had a handy new healing technique, but would she heal from a gunshot wound to the chest? Cassie didn’t think she wanted to find out.
Sweat beaded the man’s brow. “You . . . killed those people.”
The bell jingled behind him.
Oh, crap. If he swung at Dante with that gun—Dante would burn him.
“No!” Cassie cried out, then she slammed her body into the store clerk’s. They tumbled onto the floor, but she got up faster than he did.
And she came up with the shotgun in her hands.
The man’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. “I-I got a wife . . . kids . . .”
“Cassie?” Dante was behind her.
“You’re gonna keep that wife and kids, sir. I’m not hurting you.” She backed up and bumped into Dante. “You just stay on the floor. Count to one hundred, and forget you ever saw us.” She would not have this man’s death on her conscience.
Her conscience was already messed up enough.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .” The man closed his eyes as he started to count. He didn’t get up off the floor.
Cassie shoved her elbow into Dante’s rock-hard abs. “Let’s go.”
He was staring at her with a furrow between his brows. Another shove had him moving. When they were at the Jeep, she tossed the shotgun into the nearest trash can and jumped into the vehicle.
Cassie thought Dante would gun the engine and get them out of there. He didn’t move. He was in the driver’s seat, and the guy was just . . . staring at her.
“What?” Cassie snapped.
“You jumped on that man . . .”
That was obvious.
“You were . . . saving me?” He seemed stunned.
“Yes, well, when you die, it’s not exactly pretty.” And if he’d risen, he would have blown up that whole gas station. “Now can we please get out of here? I don’t buy for a minute that the guy is counting all the way to one hundred before he springs to his feet.” More likely, he was already calling the cops on them.
“You should have killed him.”
“No.” She grabbed for the key and cranked the ignition.
“He was a human, one who was just trying to do the right thing.” Been there, done that. “He didn’t deserve to die.” Her gaze sought Dante’s. “Now come on. Get this thing moving.”
He held her gaze a second longer. Then the Jeep jerked forward. Finally. They left that gas station with a squeal of their nearly bald tires. Left the shotgun.
She was very afraid that trouble would be following close behind—trouble in the form of Lieutenant Colonel Jon Abrams. Jon was the leader of the group Uncle Sam had gunning for her—and Jon was also the man who’d once said he loved her.
She hadn’t believed him. Despite the fact that he was a damn good liar.
Once upon a time, he’d been a would-be fiancé. Now, he was the man who wanted her to make him an unstoppable army.
Sorry, Jon, that’s not going to happen.
Unfortunately, she knew from bitter experience that he didn’t give up easily. Especially when he wanted something badly enough.
“And you’re sure the woman you saw was Cassandra Armstrong?” Jon asked as he stared across the counter at the shaken store clerk.
The guy—Tommy Wells—gave a quick nod. “That was her. She—she jumped me. Took my gun before I could call the cops.” His head hung a bit in shame as he gave the confession.
Jon lifted a brow. Considering that Cassie was all of five foot five and barely pushing past one hundred and thirty pounds, the confession couldn’t be easy for the guy. If she was a paranormal, the defeat wouldn’t have been quite so embarrassing, but since she was, in fact, mostly human . . .
Tommy’s cheeks flushed an even deeper red and he muttered, “She had a guy with her. Big bastard who looked like he wanted to rip me to pieces.”
“This bastard . . . describe him.”
Tommy pointed to the height chart near the door. “Six foot three, freaking linebacker. Black hair, black eyes, a face that I don’t ever want to see again . . .”
“Don’t worry, if you see him again, it won’t be for long.” Black hair, black eyes, the right size.
Tommy frowned. “W-what do you mean it won’t be for long?”
“If he comes back, the guy’s here to kill you.” But Jon didn’t think the phoenix would be coming back. He was running with Cassie, sticking to her like glue.
The phoenix’s obsession with Cassie hadn’t lessened over the years. Jon would use that obsession. It would be what finally broke the phoenix known as Dante.
CHAPTER FOUR
“We can hide the Jeep in the back,” Cassie said as the car eased to a stop at a cabin nestled in the mountains of Kentucky. Another safe house, courtesy of Trace. She’d stayed in it on her way up to Chicago, and it was the perfect place for them to rest up and regroup before the second leg of their journey.
Once the Jeep was covered—they would not be taking that rickety vehicle again because Trace had left backup transportation at his cabin—they went inside.
Trace did enjoy his luxury. Or he had, before his life had become a nightmare.
He was one of the patients that she had to get back to in Belle, Mississippi. He needed her. Cassie’s assistant Charles would do his best to keep Trace stable until she got back, but time was of the essence, for Trace and for the other patient who needed her.
“Is this place yours?” Dante’s voice was low, rumbling as he glanced around at the sleek lines of the cabin.
She shook her head, then realized he wasn’t looking her way. “It belongs to a friend.”
He touched the monitors that she’d activated minutes before. Monitors that showed the exterior of the cabin and the lone road leading up to it. Trace sure seemed to love his security setups.
“This the same friend who owned the warehouse?” Dante asked.
“Yes.”
He looked at her with a hooded gaze. “Must be some friend if he lets you have access to all his homes.”