Chapter Ten

It was a face-off, plain and simple. Neither wanted to make the first move, but Rory was certain their state of indecision was only temporary.

“I just want to know if you’re Nina Hernandez,” he said.

Thoughtfully, he weighed his chances of successfully keeping her from opening the door once she put her mind to it. They weren’t at all favorable, especially since she seemed willing to fight him to the death.

“And if we’re not her?” she asked.

He noted her use of the plural. The first evidence of multiple personalities?

Curving his lips into a deliberate and, hopefully, reassuring smile, he said, “You’ll have to be very persuasive. All the facts say you are.”

Suspiciously, she followed his every movement as he reached for the bag beside him.

“Those fighting techniques you just demonstrated aren’t exactly suited for anyone who isn’t Nina Hernandez.” With the words, he flicked the small photo he’d dug up in her direction, and waited.

Nothing. Expressionless, she studied the picture but didn’t bother to pick it up.

“We look nothing like her,” she said at last, guileless eyes coming up to meet his with a challenge for him to disagree.

She kept saying we.

Deliberate? Or a mistake she didn’t notice due to meds still in her system? Her posture was that of a creature beaten beyond endurance, he judged, taking in the strain around her eyes. Feverish shivers she couldn’t hide were a clear indicator of her fragile state.

“Maybe not. It could be you, though. But okay. If you’re not Nina, who then?”

Continuing to look at him with that odd attentiveness he was coming to expect of her, she kept silent.

He couldn’t blame her for her wariness. The glimpse he’d caught of her treatment by Doctor Lopez had been horrific. If that had been a typical example of her year-long stay at Prima Vista—and he suspected it was—she’d been through hell and back.

“Who are you?” she asked at last, little more than a ghost in the semidarkness of the van.

“My name is Rory O’Donnell. I was sent to find you by a friend of yours, Morgan McCabe.” No reaction. “You remember Morgan…Rising Sun…the child-soldiers?”

Again, nothing.

Her gaze slipped back to the 9mm Beretta he held.

Following her gaze, he grimaced. He was going to have to do something drastic to gain her trust. And in that moment he knew just what. Which didn’t mean he liked it.

Leo had said to go with his instincts, but this was insane, and Rory knew it. But, then, since the only other way was to shoot her—

No, to get past her defenses he would have to relinquish the one thing that gave him the upper hand in this unhinged situation.

Hesitating for the barest of seconds, he made the monumental decision.

“You want this?” Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He took his gun by the barrel and held it out to her as a peace offering. “Take it, if it’ll make you feel safer.”

Riveted, she remained frozen in place. Then she snatched the weapon from his grasp before he could even think about changing his mind.

He held his breath.

Hands trembling, she examined the weapon, checked the ammo clip, and removed the safety with a flick of her thumb. The fact that she was familiar with the deadly weapon gave him added confidence about her true identity. He kept himself still, determined not to make a mistake, now that they had reached this particular point in their budding relationship. Trust was incredibly important. To work with her, he would need it.

She leveled the Beretta at his chest.

Damn. Maybe he should have thought this through a little better.

“Why shouldn’t we just shoot you?”

He waited a beat, carefully choosing his next words. “You could,” he acknowledged with a nod. “But you know you can’t manage on your own out here in the real world. Not yet. You know when they catch you, they’ll lock you up again. You’re going to need all the help you can get to remain free.”

It was no lie. The main reason he had driven the long hours since he’d taken her from her cell was to put as much distance as possible between them and the hospital.

Watching her, he felt he was getting through to her, if only a little. “Right now, I’m all you’ve got,” he added, just in case that wasn’t clear.

Time ticked passed, until finally she lowered the weapon and put the safety on.

No longer staring down the barrel of his own gun, he resumed breathing. That had been a close call.

“Tell you what, Nina,” he said. “I’m beat. Why don’t we find a nice off-road motel where we can rest, talk, and you can clean up?” He looked her over. “I’m sure you’d like to change into some normal clothes.”

The threadbare hospital pajamas hung unflatteringly on her wiry frame, but she glanced at them with minimal interest.

“You’re bound to draw attention like that,” he pointed out. “Besides, I could do with some food. How ’bout you?” He made for the door and opened it. Once outside, he shrugged off his jacket.

“Food?” she repeated, as if testing the word. It sounded as if she hadn’t heard or spoken it in a very long time.

A viable option. She was skinnier than was good for anyone.

Watching the fragile-looking waif in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel for her. The horrors she must have gone through were reflected within the dark, tortured depths of her eyes. It actually hurt meeting her gaze.

Deciding to take her agreement as a given, he nodded sagely. “Yeah, food. I’m sure we can find something a little more appetizing than hospital grub. Here, put this on. You’ll be less conspicuous.”

For the longest time she looked at the jacket he held out. The brisk eastern wind was more than a little chilly on the cloudy day.

“Come on,” he encouraged, watching, waiting for her to finally make up her mind.

Stabbing the Beretta into the elastic waistband of her baggy hospital pajama pants, she accepted the jacket.

“Good girl,” he said approvingly.