The observation set off an alarm inside her head. When she tried to pull away, his grip tightened to a bone-crushing force, and her heart kicked against her rib cage when he slid a knife from his pocket.
Essie twisted her body in an effort to avoid the blade, but his iron grip on her hand limited her movements. Pain seared her side when the sharpened metal tore her shirt and sliced her skin. It didn’t go nearly as deep as he’d intended, but it still hurt like hell.
Adrenaline surging, she slammed her elbow into his chest and stomped on his instep. He grunted and took another swing with the knife, but this time the blade only found air. She twisted, swung back, and elbowed him again, this time putting all of her weight into it, and when his grip loosened, she broke free.
Now wasn’t the time to go on the offensive. Vaughn was taller, heavier, stronger, and fought dirtier than she did. Not to mention, she was injured, which put her at a greater disadvantage. She dove behind the couch, pulled her pistol from the ankle holster, and fired blindly in his direction. Through the pounding in her ears, she listened for movement, and when she didn’t hear any, she peeked around the side of the couch.
No sign of Vaughn, and the front door was open, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. For all she knew, the silence was a ruse to lure her out of hiding. She stayed behind the couch for a few minutes longer, until her breathing returned to normal and she felt confident that she was alone.
With a grunt, she pushed herself off the floor and checked her surroundings. A bullet hole marked the wall by her bedroom. The faint scent of blood tinged the air. Now that the excitement was over, she became increasingly aware of her injuries. At some point she must have hit her head, and her elbow stung like crazy. But the throbbing wound to her side was her biggest point of concern. Expecting the worst, she winced as she lifted the hem of her blood-stained shirt to assess the damage.
It was an ugly cut, just below the ribs and still bleeding, but over the years she’d suffered far worse and survived. Good thing she’d gotten that tetanus shot a few years ago. Teeth gritted, she crossed to the kitchen, picked up a dish cloth, and sucked air through her teeth when she pressed it to the wound.
She needed to get out of here, the sooner the better. Vaughn wasn’t the kind of man to leave unfinished business on the table, and lingering where he could easily find her wouldn’t be good for her health. Ignoring the pain, she opened the drawer near the dishwasher and rooted around for the roll of duct tape. She folded her shirt over the dish towel, and used the duct tape to keep both firmly pressed in place to stanch the bleeding. It wasn’t the best solution by any stretch, but it would have to do for now.
Gun in hand, she crossed to the bedroom and retrieved the emergency bag she kept in the back of her closet. Inside was everything she could possibly need to go off the grid for a prolonged period of time. She hoped that wouldn’t be necessary, but it never hurt to be prepared. Bag over one shoulder, she switched off the lights, reset the alarm, locked the front door behind her, and crossed the lot to her car. After a check of the trunk and the back seat, she slid behind the wheel, started the car, and sped out of the lot.
Paranoia kept her adrenaline flowing, a normal response to almost getting killed. It sharpened her senses to the point of hyper-awareness, which was a heck of a lot more useful than cold, directionless fear. For the first ten miles or so, she drove in a circular pattern to make sure she wasn’t being followed. There was always the possibility that Vaughn had put a GPS device on her car, but at the moment she wasn’t in the position to perform a full-vehicle search. When she saw no signs of a tail, she merged onto the toll road and headed east.
A few miles down the road at the plaza, she tossed a handful of coins into the toll basket. One of these days, she’d break down and buy an automatic transponder so she wouldn’t have to pay with cash, but the spy in her that refused to die really hated the thought of her vehicle’s movements being tracked like a rhino on the Serengeti.
The toll plaza light went from red to green, and she drove out of the lane. She glanced down and grimaced at the sight of fresh blood seeping through the fabric of her shirt not covered with duct tape. No wonder she was feeling light-headed. She needed to find a safe place to pull over, where she could treat her wound and maybe catch a few hours’ sleep.
No hospital or urgent care facility—they’d ask too many questions and might call the cops. She could go to a hotel, but the clerk would probably take one look at her bloody shirt and call the cops as well.
At the next exit, she hooked a left at the gas station and headed south. Like it or not, she couldn’t think of any other place where she’d feel secure enough to tend to her injuries and get some rest. Of course, that option depended on whether Jackson was actually home. She’d have to call him to find out for sure. After the divorce, she’d made a point of not keeping tabs on where he worked, and she honestly had no idea what his current schedule looked like.
But first she needed to switch cars, because the very last thing she wanted to do was bring danger to Jackson’s door.
Chapter 6
“there’s two and ahalf hours of my life I’ll never get back.” Empty beer bottle in hand, Jackson pushed up from the recliner as the end credits scrolled forMaximum Jeopardy, the first installment of theExtreme Velocityfranchise.
After a long day of working on a personal protection detail, he’d been up for a couple of beers and some mindless entertainment. He just hadn’t expected it to bethatmindless. And unrealistic. Seriously, that scene in the bank vault toward the end of the movie was borderline cartoonish.
Navarre, on the other hand, had no problem with disengaging his brain and suspending his sense of disbelief. Relaxed on the couch in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, he picked up the remote and began flipping channels. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”
Jackson stopped mid-stride and shot Navarre a look over his shoulder. “On what planet is it possible for a car to flip a damn tank?”
His roommate grinned. “There you go again, expecting the laws of physics to apply in movies. We’ll save the sequel for Bad Movie Night.”
Shaking his head, Jackson headed for the kitchen. Normally, he would have gotten another beer, but he and Navarre were going to the auto auction first thing tomorrow morning in search of Navarre’s next restoration project. Last he heard, his roomie was on the hunt for a muscle car from the ’80s in need of TLC, like a Grand National or an IROC-Z. Maybe even a Mustang GT if the price was right. Something as beat up on the outside as Navarre was on the inside.
As Jackson cracked open a can of Pepsi, his phone sounded with Essie’s ringtone, and his body responded with its usual leap of excitement. Christ, he was pathetic. Here he was, a grown-ass man in his thirties, yet he felt more nervous than a teenager getting a call from the hottest chick in high school. He paused a moment to steady his nerves, and then took the phone from his pants pocket and swiped to accept the call.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?”
“Hi, Russell. It’s Esther. I was wondering if I could run something by you.”
To anybody else, she’d sound friendly and upbeat, but Jackson knew better. While they were married, they’d developed a code of sorts, a way to alert each other in the event of trouble. Her chirpy tone was the first subtle hint. Second, she never used his full first name in a casual conversation. Usually, she called him Jackson, or Russ if she was feeling frisky. Calling him Russell was her way of letting him know something was wrong.
He set the drink can on the counter and started for the bedroom, where he kept his Mossberg 12 gauge under the bed. “Sure thing. When and where?”
“How about now? Are you hanging out at Navarre’s?”
That was more code. Any other time, she’d simply ask if he was home. Either somebody was with her, or she was concerned about their conversation being monitored.
“Yep, we just finished watching a movie.” With the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, he picked up the shotgun and a box of shells, and returned to the living room. The Mossberg was already fully loaded, but it never hurt to have extra ammo close by in case shit got serious.
