It was three in the morning when Claire got her first glimpse of Owen Grady. Ink black shadows lingered on the outskirts of the wan piss-yellow light from the gas station. Humidity had long since pasted Claire's clothes to her skin, sweat pooling in her black leather gloves. But she remained vigilant, unmoving from her position.
Be careful with this one, Agent Dearing, Mills had said.
Claire didn't need to be told to watch her back. Working at MI-6, she made more than her fair share of enemies. And if she let Owen slip through her fingers tonight, she would have yet another name to add to that long list of people who would be all too willing to put a bullet in her brain.
The rumble of a motorcycle's engine caught Claire's attention. Seconds later, Owen came into view and pulled to a stop. He had no helmet, but a baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, shielding most of his face from view. He wore a flannel button up shirt, sleeves rolled back to the elbow, with black jeans and boots caked in dried, flaking mud. A dark shadow of stubble spread across his jawline.
He was a far cry from the picture Claire had seen in his file—clean shaven, crisp white Navy uniform stretched tight across his broad shoulders. But she had been in this job long enough to recognize the symptoms of a man on the run—haunted, skittish, and tense.
Owen bypassed the gas pump and headed into the gas station instead. Claire watched as he wandered the aisles, grabbed a bag of peanuts, two packages of beef jerky, then disappeared to the refrigerated section and out of her line of sight.
Claire was on the move. She slid out of her car and drew her pistol from beneath the driver's seat. Her boots barely made a whisking noise on the pavement as she screwed the silencer into place on the muzzle of her pistol.
The back door of the gas station was locked. She had seen to that already. The only way Owen Grady was getting out alive would be to go through her. And she had no intention of allowing him to escape.
Claire slipped in the door and gestured to get the clerk's attention. He was a scrawny teenager with a chronically sleepy expression permanently fixed in place. She flashed her MI-6 badge and jerked her thumb at the door. The clerk's eyes widened a fraction of an inch and he nodded, scrambling out the door.
Claire crept along the aisles, pistol at the ready. With Owen's military background, he had proven to be a tough target to take out, staying off the grid, never spending more than two days in one place. But her objective wasn't him. It was the weapon he had stolen.
What sort of weapon? Claire had asked when she received the file, almost entirely redacted into blackness.
There wasn't much information for her to work with apart from the bare essentials and she hated being kept in the dark.
I'm afraid that's classified, Mills had replied.
The only clear directive of her mission was that Owen's life didn't matter in this case. It was the intel he carried, the prototype of a weapon far above her paygrade.
For all Claire knew, she could be walking into an ambush.
One aisle remained.
Her grip tightened on the pistol and her finger caressed the trigger. She stepped forward, gun raised and steady.
Nothing.
A deafening clang of metal thundered in the back of the gas station.
"No, no, no," Claire hissed. "Shit!"
She darted to the back of the gas station. The door hung lopsided on its hinges and the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine purred to life once again.
Throwing caution to the wind, Claire broke into an all-out run and skidded into the road, blocking Owen's path.
He dropped one foot to the ground, his boot heel sliding on the pavement. He revved the engine with a threatening growl.
In answer, Claire aimed her pistol at him. She had him in her sights and she was not about to back down.
Owen revved the engine again—final warning. The squeal of tires screeched in the silence. Then he was barreling straight for her.
Claire fired. Once, twice, three times.
Owen swerved, nearly laying his bike flat on its side, before he managed to right it again and blew past her.
Claire strode to her car, tossed the pistol on the seat beside her. She knew she hadn't missed him. Owen wouldn't risk seeking out medical attention, but a gunshot wound would slow him down, tipping the cards in Claire's favor.
As Claire turned to leave the parking lot, she noticed a lump on the ground where Owen's motorcycle had been. She pulled up beside it, opened her door and picked it up.
A t-shirt. One of the tacky tourist ones on a rack inside the gas station. A pink palm tree was imprinted on the front, wearing sunglasses and a cartoon grin.
Definitely not something a man like Owen Grady would wear. Besides, it would hardly fit him.
The shirt was a child's medium.