“Do you think there’s a mega sandwich shop around here? Because I’m mega hungry,” Lana murmured.
His lips twitched. Although she’d claimed in her endless chattering during the six-hour drive that she didn’t have a great sense of humor, he found himself amused by her wry remarks and subtle jokes. He’d had to stifle several chuckles already. That would have defeated the purpose of distance.
“I’ll grab us something from the café I spotted around the corner,” he said.
They entered the motel room, which was as shabby as the one they’d spent last night in. Lana removed the oversize flannel shirt he’d given her, which left her in the oversize sweater that hung past the knees of her snug black track pants. The bloodstained sweater she’d worn yesterday had been tossed out, and since Deacon had neglected to bring her suitcase when they escaped the apartment, she now had no choice but to wear his clothes.
For some reason, the sight of her slender body covered in his shirts brought a strange spark of satisfaction.
Lana’s blue eyes zeroed in on the telephone sitting on the splintered cedar nightstand. “Can I call my parents?” she asked softly.
Regret lined his tone. “I’m afraid not.”
She met his gaze. “Why not?”
“Le Clair probably bugged their phones. Or maybe not. Either way, we can’t take the chance that he or his men will be listening to the calls.”
“But what if I don’t reveal our location? I can just say I got away and I’m making my way home.”
He shook his head. “We still might be tracked here. If the phones are bugged, Le Clair will get a trace and find us.” When her face fell, he let out a breath. “I know you want to speak to your family, but just hold on a bit longer. You’ll be home soon.”
“When?”
“A few days, if we drive without making too many stops. But I want to get an early start in the morning so we can make it to Chicago at a decent time. There’s someone I need to see.”
Suspicion clouded her face. “Who?”
“An old friend of mine. We worked on a couple of assignments together in the Middle East.”
“Wait, you have a friend?”
She sounded so surprised he felt a prickle of irritation. “Even bad guys like me have friends.” He suddenly sighed. “Well, O’Neal’s more of an acquaintance, actually.”
Lana seemed to be fighting a laugh. “Okay. So why do we need to see this acquaintance?”
“We need money. Ammo. A vehicle I won’t need to ditch every six hours.”
“Are you sure we can trust this guy?”
“We have no choice,” he said quietly. “We won’t make it to Montana without supplies.”
“All right. If you think it’s safe.”
He almost cringed. She gave her trust to him so freely, without any hesitation. That unfailing idealism again, her need to seek out the best in everyone.
Discomfort curled in his stomach. Sometimes he wished she’d just hate him. Distrust him. Those were responses he’d become accustomed to, reactions he expected from those around him. Lana’s determination to ignore the dark ness inside him was something he didn’t quite know how to handle.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll go grab us some food. Lock the door behind me.” As an afterthought, he unzipped the duffel bag he’d set on the bed, retrieved a black .35 mm and held it out to her. “Keep this close.”
Leaving the room, he headed to the car and made a quick trip to the coffee shop, where he purchased several sandwiches, some cookies, coffee for himself and juice for Lana. When he got back to the motel, Lana was sitting in the tiny kitchenette flipping through a newspaper that must have been left there by the previous occupant.
The frown marring her face told him the news wasn’t good. “What’s up?” he asked, gesturing to the paper.
“My dad.” Her tone was flat as she held up one page in particular.
Senator’s Extracurricular Activities, the headline read. Next to the article was a photograph of Hank Kelley’s distinguished features, a smug smile on his face. Across from Kelley was a second photo, this one showcasing the striking face of a redhead in her mid-to late-twenties. One of Kelley’s mistresses apparently.
“How could he do this?” Lana mumbled, more to herself than him. He understood her distress—hearing the news was one thing, but seeing the photos was like a punch to the gut. “God, seeing this makes me…it makes me…”
“Angry?” Deacon supplied, handing her one of the plastic-wrapped sandwiches.
“Yeah.” Shock filled her face. “Yes,” she said in a raised voice. “I am angry.”
The look in her eyes revealed such disbelief, such startled confusion, that he had to fight another smile. “That’s not an emotion you feel often, is it?”