Page 25 of What Doesn't Kill Her
“What do you know about it?”
“I’ve got experience. Why do you think I got called on this job?”
He stared as if he couldn’t decide whether to believe her or not.
She added, “No honor among thieves and all that.”
For one moment, his hand stopped inching. But he’d already proved he wasn’t the brightest guy, and now he moved more quickly, as if he wanted to handle the matter before she talked him out of it.
He pulled his pistol.
She heard him release the safety.
He turned toward her, pistol leveled at her, arm outstretched to grab the wheel.
She slammed hard on the brakes.
His head thumped the windshield hard enough to send a spiderweb of cracks across the safety glass. The pistol flew out of his hand. Didn’t go off. Thank God.
She goosed the van.
He slapped back into the seat hard enough (she hoped) for whiplash. But no—he recovered fast, proving he had great reflexes and not much in the cranium. He lunged at her.
She leveled her pistol and shot him in the chest.
The impact drove him against the passenger-side door. He looked surprised—but not dead.
Figured. He was a professional. He wore body armor.
He gasped in agony. Taking a shot from that close, he probably had a couple of broken ribs.
Good.
She slammed on the brakes again, released her seat belt and kicked him against the passenger side, a good solid blow to the chest, then leaned past him, opened the door and shoved him on to the road.
She drove off, door swinging, moving as fast as she could along the narrow rutted road. Dust boiled in the still-open door, and she watched the rearview mirror for a cloud created by a following vehicle. She saw nothing.
This road headed toward a trailhead that led to Lake Rannoch and the falls. Pure wilderness, and no chance of help.
She turned onto President Roosevelt Road. If the map was right, President Roosevelt Road would wind up and down and around the mountains, cross into the Olympic National Forest and eventually end in a paid parking area. Hikers and mountain bikers took off from there on their jaunts to lakes and peaks, and if she was lucky, there would be a national park ranger around. The rangerswerethe law enforcement up here, and she needed help.
If she was unlucky, there would be an unmanned payment box.
In the last year, luck had been scarce, and victories hard-fought and won with a lot of pain.
She drove unhurriedly, making sure she raised no betraying dust.
What with crazy Roderick on the roof sending a tile down to pierce her hip and then telling her, “Run, bitch!”... Well, no one could call the last monthlucky. She’d played enough cards in the Army to know when luck had deserted you, you should throw it in and walk away. She intended to do just that...but!
She’d taken this job in good faith. She couldn’t abandon the head. At best, it would disappear into a private collection, never to be seen again. At worst, it would be sold to finance terrorist operations around the world.
Run, bitch.
When she had gone several miles and seen the National Forest sign, she came to a halt and allowed herself one despairing moment with her head on the steering wheel.
She was in trouble. She needed help, and she didn’t know who to call. Max? Nils? Birdie and her Army buddies? None of them would get here fast enough to help her. The park rangers? Yes, maybe, but there was money behind this operation and a uniform would be easy to rent and wear.
She had to help herself and save that head, and she didn’t know how her situation could get any more dire.
