Page 9 of Nothing to Fear

The slap of broiling heat and unforgiving humidity had her blouse sticking to her dampening skin before they reached the tree-shaded parking lot.

“Where are you headed for your appointment?” he asked.

“Wolf Trap.”

“Where’s home?”

“Wolf Trap.”

She rushed to her car. Her pulse had a wild, skittering beat. He asked a lot of questions—twenty since he’d come to her desk. It was kind of nice. Answering questions was easier than racking her brain for something interesting to say. But his tone on the elevator had delved deeper toward want to take your clothes off than want to grab a latte, if she hadn’t misread things—as she often did. Now he stayed two feet away as if he were the one afraid—to get too close to her.

Maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that he scared her, but she wasn’t worried about her physical safety with him. She probably messed up the entire conversation, acted the wrong way, said the wrong thing. As usual. What if he never talked to her again?

Regret burned her face. She pressed a palm to her forehead. “Tomorrow, if you need me to do research for you, I don’t mind.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable, those blue eyes deadly serious. “Sure.”

“No need to be my friend. It’s my job.” Idiot. Such a poor choice of words, although true. It might be really nice to have him for a friend. She unlocked her car door. “I mean, I’m happy to help you.”

“Everyone needs an ally, Willow.”

Ally? What a strange way of putting it.

She hopped into her older yellow VW bug and brought the engine to life with a sputtering rumble. She cranked the air-conditioning and fastened her seat belt over her purse strap.

With her hands at the ten and two o’clock positions, she pulled off. She glimpsed Gideon in the rearview mirror, watching her drive out of the lot. He pivoted as if to step away but then lowered his head. Staring at the ground, he knelt and touched the asphalt.

She turned onto the single lane dotted with twelve-inch diameter silver disks. Headed to the front gate, she noted the sign that warned against exceeding thirty-five miles per hour. Higher speeds would activate the retractable pneumatic bollards—electrohydraulic stainless-steel pillars—that’d pop up from the ground. One of many security features of their lockdown protocol, also intended to prevent hostile intrusion.

Huge shade trees lined the road up to the six-foot rebar-reinforced concrete barriers that edged the first few hundred yards of the entrance. The automatic armored gate slid open.

The traffic light changed from green to yellow. She punched the gas, zipping by the small manned gatehouse, and cleared the light as she sped down the access road to hit the highway.

The George Washington Parkway ran along the Potomac River northwest to Langley, where it bled into I-495. Blowing past the fifty-miles-per-hour sign on the GWP, she eased off the gas. A slight incline slowed the car to sixty. She merged onto the two-lane highway. With the holiday, traffic would either flow smoothly or cramp in a blink. Hoping for the former, she switched on cruise control for fuel efficiency. Every nickel saved added up.

Drawing in a breath, she prepped for sensory triggers. She had difficulty processing certain sounds. Sirens overloaded her synapses, and the unbearable noise of metal on metal was crippling. Growing up, if an emergency services vehicle passed with sirens blaring, lights flashing, her sensory meltdowns in front of other kids had infuriated her sisters.

Her father never wanted her to drive, but she had no choice if she wanted to work at the NSA. In time, her excellent driving record had lessened his qualms.

The parkway merged into I-495, looping the urban fringes of Virginia and Maryland, encircling DC. The southbound strip of highway construction wasn’t hampering her commute, but she hated the claustrophobic effect of the concrete barricades funneling four streams of traffic into three and blocking the shoulder. Barring any jams, she wouldn’t be too late.

Her car zipped up on a white minivan. She sighed, glancing at the adjacent lane to see if she could maneuver over. No such luck. She tapped the brake, but her car didn’t slow. The cruise control should’ve deactivated, but the light stayed on and the speedometer didn’t budge as her car devoured the pavement, getting closer to the van. This can’t be happening. She’d taken the car for routine service last month, and everything had been fine this morning.

She jabbed the button and pumped the brake again. The ABS light blinked on. The distance to the minivan closed at a staggering rate. She stomped her foot, and something in the brake assembly shifted this time, the spongy response giving way to no resistance.

The brakes are gone. Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear overrode disbelief.

A glimmer of light bounced inside the van. Cartoons played on two flip-down screens. Kids were inside, and she was rushing toward them with no brakes and nowhere to pull over.

Panic buzzed in her skull. What was she going to do?

An opening appeared. She darted behind a truck, despite the position drawing her further from the exit lane. Blocked on all sides, the speedometer snagged on sixty, and her options dwindled to nil. Her car barreled toward the back of the eighteen-wheeler. Horror flooded her.

She jammed down on the brake, the pedal to the floor, and prayed for a miracle. Honking, she signaled to change lanes, first trying to the left, then right, but no one let her in on either side.

The distance between her and the back of the truck’s high steel wall shrank. Two hundred feet dropped to a hundred. Eighty. Forty. Blood roared in her ears. Her stomach knotted.

If no one would let her change lanes, she’d have to force her way in.