The Blonde Identity (4)

As the men climbed off their motorcycles and stepped closer, she could see their black eyes and bloody lips, and Alex tried to remind herself that she’d done that. She’d seen herself on TV, beating these same guys to a pulp. She’d just have to do it again.

“Looking for me, boys?” she said with as much swagger as she could muster, and the goon squad looked around.

“Uh . . . yes?” Goon Number One said like it might be a trick question.

“Give us the drive, Alex,” another goon barked.

Then it was Alex’s turn to be confused. “Drive? What drive?”

They laughed like she was making a joke. They obviously didn’t know that a half-used tube of lip balm was currently her most prized possession.

“Hand it over, and no one has to get hurt.” The first goon looked at his friends and laughed again, a mocking sound. “Or we will make it hurt less. Which is better than making it hurt very much. It is your decision.”

His voice sounded like vodka tastes, and a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, Russian. They were Russian. And for a moment she just stood there, waiting for her memory to come surging back. For something—anything—to feel familiar, but the only thing in her head was a dull, throbbing ache and the knowledge that she was outnumbered. But that was okay, Alex told herself. Her muscles would know what to do. Her muscles would remember.

“See? About that? Funny story. I actually don’t have any drives. Really. Scout’s honor.” The men stepped forward, and Alex tried to sound as tough as possible as she said, “So I guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”

And then she attacked.

Or . . . well . . . she tried to attack. Really. She did. She ran right up to the biggest, meanest-looking man of the bunch and kicked. Hard. But she slipped on the ice and fell. “Ow.”

For a moment, the men just stared at her, confused. Like maybe they were the ones locked inside a really bad dream. But Alex knew the clock was ticking. Soon they’d realize she was vulnerable, down there on the ground, so she did the one thing she could think of—she kicked again. Straight up between the biggest man’s legs.

She heard him scream and watched him fall, and for a moment his buddies just stood there, staring. But then they pounced, and it was just like the movies: a blur. Head pounding. Blood spraying. Bodies dropping, one after the other. It was like she hadn’t even moved and yet . . .

Wait, she realized. She hadn’t moved.

But, suddenly, she could see the sky. The falling snow. And the look on Mr. Hot Guy’s face as he stood over her, a smoking gun in his hand and bleeding bodies all around them as he said, “Damn it, Alex. I should kill you myself.”





Chapter Four





Him


Sawyer had a hold of her arm and he wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. They’d been walking for five minutes, but Alex still had that strange look in her eye—like she was going to turn around and bolt. Like there was anywhere she could go that he wouldn’t find her. Like he didn’t know all her usual haunts. Like they hadn’t been his haunts first.

But she hadn’t gone to any of their usual places this time, had she? From the looks of her, she must have been roaming the streets for hours. Which wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. Predictability was death, after all. And nothing about Alex had been predictable tonight. At all.

He took another look at her. Blonde wig. Plaid dress. A too-thin jacket and boots with a flimsy heel. Could she even run in that getup?

“Cool cover, Alex. Did you really think the sexy librarian look was going to keep the goon squad from recognizing you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looked like someone who couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended.

“It means what the fuck are you wearing?”

She gasped. “Don’t use that language with me!”

He stopped. He stared. “Who the fuck are you to comment on my f—”

“Language!”

“—reaking language?”

“I-I-I-” She stammered. Her lip even quivered just a little. If it was an act, it was a good one. “I don’t remember.”

“What the hell . . .”—he started, but she glared— “heck was that back there?”

“Muscle memory.”

“Oh yeah?” he scoffed but she just looked annoyed.

“You know, when your body remembers actions because of years of intense training and repetition,” she said calmly—slowly—like he was the one who was off his game. So he flicked her on the end of her nose. “Ow!”

“You remember this?” he said, and then he flicked again. Not hard. But not teasing.

“Stop that.” She smacked him on the arm—so weak it wouldn’t kill a fly.

It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t also terrifying. “Come on, muscles. Remember.”

He flicked her ear. She slapped his hand. And that’s when he realized that Alex would have had his nuts in a vise by now, but this woman . . . girl . . . person . . . She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip and looked up at him like she’d been drawn by Walt Disney. Like she was innocent and pure and good. Between the blonde hair and the big eyes it was like he was looking at a stranger.