Page 125 of Covert Mission
“Ralph, please?—”
He cuts me off, yelling in my ear, “Good fucking bye.”
He’s gone. I close my eyes and breathe through the painful twisting inside my stomach.
Think, Camy. You’ve got to get your shit together and figure a way out of this.
I rub my forehead and slide from the truck.
When I look toward the bus, Lucas is striding my way. He’s still just as angry. And I’m more confused than ever.
ChapterForty-One
Lucas orders me in the truck, then climbs in the driver’s seat. He guns the engine excessively when it starts. He turns around in the middle of the narrow road, spitting dirt and gravel in his wake.
I’m not often at a loss for words, but I am right now.
The time is ticking down on my job with PCI. I’ll need to catch a plane. The airport is in Carollia.
That’s not the direction we’re heading. But now does not seem like the time to point that out.
I steal a glance at Lucas’s profile. I’ve never seen his jaw so clenched or his eyes so focused. Not even in the middle of rescuing me.
He’s boiling inside.
When we pass a road sign that reads Playa Grande, he turns, taking us away from Santa Rosa.
I wait for him to explain. But when he doesn’t, my frustration grows. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
Cringe.
I knew this was coming. Worrying didn’t make me feel any better.
He drives in silence for another ten minutes.
The scent of saltwater comes through the vents on the truck. I love the beaches of Vandemora.
Not that these are the circumstances I’d like to visit under.
A tiny town waits at the end of the road. Two restaurants. A string of about ten small houses stretches from side to side along the wide sandy beach. There’s a small hotel and a surf shop with a sign declaring the cheap board rentals.
Lucas parks in front of the hotel.
I should probably protest. But Lucas is right. We need privacy for the conversation we’re going to have. It’s not going to be pretty.
He walks around to my side, opens the door, and pulls me out. Lucas is not gentle, but he’s not rough either. His touch is… firm. Yeah, that’s it, firm.
The man works fast. Less than a minute later, he’s rented a room and we’re walking under a greenery-covered veranda toward a pale blue door with a number 3 painted on it.
My breath is stilted as he opens the door and steps inside. He glances around, checks the bathroom, and turns to look at me.
“All clear.”
Oh no, things are not clear. They’re turbulent and murky as a raging river.
The door clicks closed. The sound echoes in the tidy room, sending a crackle of electricity through my nervous system.