The Littlest Target

He stepped back as if something about her comment surprised him.

She slid across the seat and buckled Fitz in. Then she ran around to the passenger-side door as Max opened it for her. Now she could see there was a full computer keyboard mounted between the two front seats and a whole lot of red-and-brown takeout coffee cups on the floor.

He blushed and quickly swept the trash into a black garbage bag that he yanked out from somewhere under the seat. He waited until she got in and closed the door behind her, before running back around and getting in the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition and pulled back onto the road.

“Usually people ask me the opposite question. Why did I train to fly a helicopter, considering paramedics aren’t pilots?” he said after a long moment, and she wondered how much he’d been playing her question around in his head.

“What do you tell them?” she asked.

“I tell people it’s because I’ve got two older brothers,” he said. “Trent and Jacob are eight and ten years older than me. I grew up chasing after them and trying to prove I could do whatever they could do, while always suspecting they looked at me like the annoying little brother who couldn’t keep up. Sitting in the helicopter while some other man or woman flies me around irked me. It felt too much like getting my brothers to drive me around places in the family car. I have this weird independent streak.”

“I left home at sixteen and had hiked around most of Britain and Europe by the time I was twenty-one,” she said. “I think I can beat you when it comes to independence.”

“I didn’t think it was a competition, but if it is, then you win!” He laughed and ran his hand over his head. “I don’t have a good answer as to why I never got my pilot’s license. Maybe because I’m very happy with how my life is right now and don’t want someone getting the bright idea I should make a career shift. Or maybe I’ve just always hated tests and competitions. Like, really hated them. Turning things from fun to serious ruined them for me.

“When I was a kid, my dad built this huge shooting-and-paintball range in the woods behind our house. We all learned to shoot. Both Trent and my little brother, Nick, went on to enter competitions and win trophies and medals. I just shot for fun. Or maybe I was too clumsy and hated being showed up by my overly confident little brother. Nick’s four years younger than me and he’s got the cute-baby-of-the-family thing going for him. I didn’t have that advantage.”

Oh, she didn’t know about that. Max seemed plenty cute from where she was sitting. He cut her a sideways glance, a casual and slightly wry grin slid across his mouth and something in his eyes sparkled.

She felt a sudden heat rise to her face. None of this was personal. He was only making conversation to ease her fears. He had to be. Yet, for a moment she caught a glimpse of the man he could be when there wasn’t a gunman or crisis at hand. It was a nice look.

“No sisters?” she asked.

Then just as suddenly as it appeared, the light faded from his eyes. He turned and stared ahead through the windshield, his hands tightened on the steering wheel at exactly ten and two. A frown crossed his mouth and his head shook slightly.

Okay, so she’d take that as a no.

Or at the very least, a no comment.

Silence filled the vehicle, punctuated by the occasional squeak of the windshield wipers as they wiped away the intermitted sprays of rain.

“As you’ve probably guessed, I’m English,” she said, after a long moment. “This is my first trip to Canada and I’ve done absolutely no sightseeing. Literally all I’ve seen is Fitz’s house and some highway. But I’ve traveled all around Europe and the UK. Even a bit of the Middle East and northern Africa. I grew up in this really tiny town where everybody knew everybody. I have four half siblings, but they’re all a lot younger than me. My stepfather and I never got on, so I left home at sixteen and moved in with my aunt. I finished school early, got a childcare diploma and traveled a lot. Then I started working for a temp agency. Turned out being a nanny was a great job to have for someone who liked traveling.”

She wasn’t quite sure why she was telling him all that. Maybe it was because she wanted him to know that there was more to her than some helpless person he’d picked up from the side of the road. She was tough and, yeah, she was probably a couple of years younger than he was, but she’d lived.

Not that it really mattered what he thought of her. He’d be gone from her life in an hour.

She waited until he seemed lost in thought, slid her rucksack open and ran her thumb slowly over the stack of hundred-dollar bills, tilting her bag so Max couldn’t see in. They were wrapped together so tightly she could barely wiggle one out with her fingers. Why would Gerry have that much money just lying around in his car? Was it emergency money? Did he know she’d have to run with Fitz?

She pulled out the cell phone that she’d found with the money and turned it on. It asked for a password. She turned it off again, dropped it back in the bag and leaned back against the seat. So much for her idea of using it as a backup phone.

Gerry had texted exactly twice on the phone he’d given her when she’d fled. The first was a very long text, telling her that Anna had died, but that he was fine and recovering from smoke inhalation in a Montreal hospital. He added that she should be very cautious but that he was hopeful he’d get a good and trustworthy cop to meet up with her en route. His second text was just two words long: How’s Fitz?

At the time, she’d texted back that he was fine and that she was making good time. But that was before the accident. Now she wasn’t sure what to tell him or when.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning now. Surely, Gerry would be asleep. Either that or dealing with enough other worries. But the guilt of worrying him with the news that his son had been in an accident was less than the guilt of not telling him. Her phone was down to just one bar of cell signal that kept flickering in and out.

She wrote him a very short text, with the bare minimum of information and the repeated assurance that Fitz was fine. The message-sending symbol circled before finally giving her a bright red alert that the text hadn’t gone, but the phone would try to send it again when it got a better signal.

She leaned her head back against the seat and prayed she’d be able to text him that they were back en route soon.

She glanced at Max. His brow was crinkled.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Fitz’s mother,” Max said. He frowned. “I’m sorry, it’s an occupational hazard. Your comment raised a medical question, and now I want to know an answer. I promised I wouldn’t pry and I mean it. But you told me that she died in childbirth. And the statistical likelihood of that happening is about one in ten thousand babies born in Canada. I’ve delivered my fair share of roadside babies, and I’ve never lost one yet. So I’m wondering what her specific complications were or if they’re congenital.”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. The phone Gerry gave her buzzed. She glanced at the screen. It was a new text from an unknown number.

Hello, Daisy.

A friendly word of warning. Do not underestimate the people who are out to steal Fitz or what they’ll do to get their hands on him. Trust no one. Anna Pearce intentionally sabotaged your work-visa paperwork. That means you’re here illegally. If you go to police, you will be arrested; you will be deported; Fitz will be taken and you’ll never see my little boy again.

Jane.

Daisy’s hand rose to her lips as horror swept over her heart. Jane was Fitz’s birth mother.

And she was dead.

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