Page 1 of Working for the Enemy

1

MARLOWE

Hide in plain sight.

That’s the cardinal rule. It’s the only reason I am currently standing in the middle of Main Street in Forge Creek, Colorado, plastering on a smile so bright my cheeks ache.

I adjust the strap of my oversized canvas tote, taking a long, slow breath of the crisp mountain air. It smells like pine, damp earth, and a clean slate. Such a stark contrast to the diesel fumes and stale asphalt of the Denver trailer park I left behind.

I’ve been here for a week. Seven whole days of keeping my head down, sleeping in the backseat of my beat-up sedan, and trying to convince myself that two hundred miles is enough distance to buy my freedom.

It has to be. Because I am entirely out of money, options, and places to run.

"Morning, sweetheart!" Mrs. Kincaid calls out, sweeping the sidewalk outside of her diner, Kincaid’s Early Bird.

I pivot, throwing my shoulders back and letting my dimples do the heavy lifting. Sunshine as armor. Works every single time.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kincaid!" My tone is pure syrup, light and perky. "If those are fresh cinnamon rolls I smell, you’re officially a cruel woman for tempting me when I’m on a strict air-and-scenery diet."

She chuckles, resting her hands on her broom handle. "I tried that diet once. Hated it. Decided to take over the family diner and feed the people.” Marlene Kincaid tucks a few strands of silver-streaked brown hair behind her ears, and narrows her eyes at me. I’ve learned in my short time here, Mrs. Kincaid is sharp and observant, with just the right amount of small town charm to soften her edges. “You still looking for work?"

"Always on the hunt," I say as I take a few steps closer to her, keeping my posture relaxed. Never show the desperation. Never let them see you sweat. "Any chance you need an extra set of hands behind the counter? I make a mean cup of coffee, and I’m excellent at laughing at terrible jokes."

"Oh, honey, I wish. But my granddaughter is taking over the register next week," she says, giving me a sympathetic tilt of her head. Her all-knowing eyes scan my faded t-shirt and the slight dark circles under my eyes. "Where did you say you moved here from again? You don't have much of a mountain accent."

My heart does a sharp, familiar kick against my ribs. A tiny flare of panic, smoothed over before it can even reach my face.

"Just passing through from the city," I lie smoothly, throwing in an airy little laugh. "Followed the mountains until my car gave a suspicious cough, and I fell in love with the scenery. You know how it is. Sometimes a girl gets a little bit of wanderlust and forgets to pack a backup plan."

"Well, Forge Creek has a way of trapping people," she says kindly, missing the way my hands tighten around the fabric of my bag. "Try down at the bar, or maybe the hardware store. Someone is bound to need a smart girl like you."

"Thanks, Mrs. Kincaid! I'll do that."

I offer a cheery wave, turning on my heel before she can dig any deeper. The smile drops the second my back is turned, my eyes automatically sweeping the street.

Left side. Right side. Alleyway between the dry cleaner and the apothecary.

Clear.

I check my perimeter constantly. It's a habit etched into my brain after months of looking over my shoulder, waiting for a heavy hand to drop on my collar and demand what I don't have. They think I owe them. They think because I made the mistake of taking a loan to escape a dead-end life, they own every breath I take. Paying back the loan plus thirty percent interest wasn't enough. The bruise on my rib cage from their enforcer’s knuckle is almost faded, but the terror is still fresh.

I rub a hand over my stomach as it gives a quiet, pathetic rumble. I have four dollars and twelve cents in my pocket, and a box of cheap granola bars in my trunk. That’s it.

Stepping off the curb, I cross toward The Foundry Bar & Grill, my mind spinning through numbers and fast-food menus, when the air around me suddenly shifts.

It’s not a breeze. It’s a sudden, heavy pressure. A drop in the atmosphere that feels like a thunderstorm rolling down off the peaks.

I freeze.

A shadow falls over me, blotching out the crisp Colorado sun. I look up. And up. Holy sweet mother of God.

The man standing three feet in front of me isn't just large; he is a sheer wall of muscle, iron, and brutality. His broad shoulders block out the sky, and he’s clad in a faded canvas work jacket stretched tight over a chest the size of a refrigerator. Dark brown hair, short on the sides and slightly longer on top, frames a face cut from solid granite. Heavy eyebrows. A sharp jawline covered in dark stubble. A jagged, faded scar slices right along the edge of his jaw, giving him the dangerous, lethal look of a man who survives things that would put anyone else in the ground.

And his eyes. They’re a dark, piercing blue that aren't just looking at me. They’re dissecting me. Pinning me to the pavement like an insect under a microscope.

My body reacts instantly. My brain screams danger, run, drop and roll, get the hell out of here. But my feet are rooted to the ground. My blood goes hot, a strange, electric spark shooting straight down my spine to the pit of my stomach.

He looks like the kind of man who could break me in half with one hand. So why does every nerve in my body suddenly feel completely, terrifyingly awake?