Flash Burned (27 page)

Still, there was something intriguing about the unknown.

If I were to dig a little deeper, I had a feeling I'd discover that was one of the many things that made me so addicted to Dane and the life we led. I never knew what tomorrow would bring—I never knew what the next ten minutes would bring. And that was exciting, challenging, empowering, motivating … Scary, too, but only in the sense that I had to remember I couldn't control everything, not even my own reactions or emotions. He'd proven that to me long ago and it was a lesson that repeated itself.

I couldn't say it all worked out smashingly for me now that I'd confirmed he was alive. Everything about us remained derailed. But our current predicament did leave me with that sense of optimism weddings always inspired. There was a chance things would fall into place for us. The potential existed and that was what excited me the most. What I held fast to.

Naturally, the possibility of it all falling horrifically apart again still lingered in a threatening, ominous way. I did my best to avoid that reality.

In fact, I instantly decided that I'd wait to find out whether we were having a boy or a girl. I wouldn't prepare without Dane, and I'd be surprised about the sex of our child right along with him. Because even though he didn't yet know I was pregnant, we were in this together.

For better or for worse
 …

 

chapter 14

Worse
seemed to be the name of the game for us, for the time being. As February rolled into March, I waited anxiously for Amano to call. A week into the beginning of our spring season, Dane and I had a secret rendezvous at the house for a few brief hours. Two weeks later, we had even less time together.

I tried not to be greedy, tried to accept whatever precious moments I could steal with him.

In the meantime, I helped more around the retreat, working in the kitchen in addition to assisting with the landscaping so Kyle could concentrate on some maintenance issues that had cropped up. I'd also caught him on numerous occasions quizzing the security staff on
what if
scenarios he'd concocted. He was definitely into being prepared, though the security guys clearly had no idea what he wanted to be prepared for—I did, of course.

Macy, as she'd insisted I call her, had cut my invoicing substantially with all the work I'd been doing. I told her it wasn't necessary, that I chose to be involved, needing to stay active and occupied. Though I still encountered dehydration symptoms periodically, which she vigilantly monitored because severe cases could be life threatening, I finally felt a bit more stable, much less round-the-clock nauseous.

We weren't quite sure why I had trouble, since I drank plenty of fluids during the day, so I succumbed to Macy's tests and combated the headaches with some of her natural remedies.

In late March, Amano texted me to meet at the house and I breathed a very loud sigh of relief. From my last discussion with Dane, he felt confident justice was about to prevail when it came to the last two corrupt members. I expected good news and an idea of when he thought this might all be over.

I quickly dressed in jeans and a lightweight pale-pink sweater. Kyle drove us to the house and punched in the gate code. We pulled up to the garage, while I attempted to contain my excitement over seeing Dane—and the anticipation of a positive progress report.

I felt things were looking up. Could literally feel the winds of change in the air.

So much so, I squirmed anxiously in the seat next to Kyle. Who cut into my happy thoughts.

“Hey,” he said. “The garage door's not up.”

I followed his gaze to the end stall, which Amano always opened for Kyle to drive his Rubicon into so it didn't sit outside for anyone to notice.

“Maybe Amano didn't come this time.” I hopped out and entered the garage. I hit the button for the appropriate door and Kyle eased in. At the same time, I surveyed the stalls. Motorcycle, McLaren, no Escalade. No Amano SUV.

Had he just dropped Dane off? Did he have other business to attend to and he'd pick me up later? Or did he need Kyle to collect me?

I frowned. I wasn't sure if I should tell Kyle I'd need a return ride this time—and I was reticent to do it. He was always a bit on-edge when I got back to the retreat after being with Dane.

We started toward the house, but nothing about this situation sat right with me. My gut clenched.

I drew up short and turned to Kyle. “Amano texted. He usually calls.”

“So?”

Was I being paranoid?

“So … nothing, I guess.” But I didn't continue toward the patio.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly catching on to my consternation.

“I don't know. Why isn't Amano here? And don't you think if all he planned to do was drop off Dane he'd still open the garage door, as he's done every other time? I mean, it's almost like a signal when he does that.”

“Which would make this a—”

“Trap?”

Kyle shook his head. “Not on Amano's watch.”

“Yeah. One guy trying to do everything he can to keep a hell of a lot of people safe.” I just didn't feel right about this. “Let's backtrack. Play it cool.”

I didn't have to suggest it twice.

“Oh-kay,” Kyle said. “If you're going to pass over a hookup with the hubby, I'm going to freak out just a little bit.”

He followed me to the garage. But as he made his way toward the Jeep, I told him, “That's not the vehicle we want.” I grabbed the keys to the McLaren and tossed them his way. “We might need this car.”

“Oh, hell yes.” His eyes nearly popped from the sockets.

“Just going on instinct here. I could be wrong.”

“Let's hope you're wrong. Still, it wouldn't suck to squeal the tires on this baby. That'll piss Dane off.”

“Try not to get too much pleasure out of this. We could be in serious trouble.”

“Not with me behind the wheel.” Kyle grinned confidently.

I settled into the passenger seat and hit the remote for the stall door. Then I pulled out my cell and called Amano, the only number that ever came through to me. He didn't answer. As Kyle barreled through the gap in the gate at the entrance of the drive, I studied the numbers from the few calls I'd received and compared them. All the same.

What the fuck?

Why did I feel so off about this?

Our jaunt along the dirt road was a rugged, jarring one, but I barely noticed because we'd picked up a tail. I gazed into the side mirror first, checking out the silver Chevy Camaro that moved in behind us.

“Now would be a good time to speed it up,” I told Kyle.

“On this road?”

“Yep.”

He threw a glance my way as I twisted in the seat and peered through the back window. My nerves prickled.

“Well,” Kyle said, “the good news is that this is not
my
million-and-some-dollar car.”

We wound our way through the forest toward 89A. As we approached the main road, I tersely said, “We don't want to stop. Not with whoever that is following so close behind us.”

“There's a bit of traffic, if you haven't noticed.”

“And we can't go back to the retreat. We'll lead them right there.” We reached the split in the road. “Hard left.
Now
!”

Kyle punched it and my heart leapt into my throat as the McLaren shot through a small hole of traffic that caused the slamming of brakes and a lot of blaring horns.

“Oh, Jesus,” I squeaked out as the sports car fishtailed and Kyle worked to get the vehicle under control. “Not good.”

Shifting in the seat again, I watched as the Chevy pulled almost the same move, three cars behind us. “This is going to get ugly.”

Kyle passed two trucks ahead of us, but he couldn't shake the Camaro. We started up the switchbacks, a long, winding road cut into the craggy mountain and rising over four-thousand feet to the Mogollon Rim. At most points, there was no more than a sliver of a shoulder to our right—my side of the car—then the steep plunge into the oak- and evergreen-pine-covered canyon.

The speed limit was thirty-five. Kyle pushed fifty as he wove through the light traffic.

In a strained tone, I reminded him, “This is hardly the road for passing.” Hence the No Passing Zone signs and the double yellow line.

“We need some distance from this asshole,” he ground out.

Our first hairpin turn came at us—or we came at it—a bit too fast.

“For God's sake!” I cried. “Slow down!”

The McLaren handled the sharp navigation beautifully. Kyle, however, didn't have complete control again as we barreled down on a Toyota Prius barely creeping along as the driver likely took in the sights.

“Fuck,” Kyle grumbled, then dropped the hammer and swerved sharply into the other lane.

“You see that truck ahead of us, right?” I shouted, my eyes wide.

He had to pass two vehicles to clear ours if we were going to get back into the correct lane.

My pulse raged in my ears. I raised my forearms in front of my face, unable to watch, knowing we were about to be the bug on the four-by-four's windshield.

Kyle cut back onto our side of the road and I felt the car shudder from the force of wind the truck created as it whizzed by us, horn wailing. I'm sure we were flipped a few fingers from all parties concerned.

I lowered my arms. Tried to breathe.

Kyle continued taking on the traffic and the treacherous turns as though we were stuntmen on a movie set where all the action was perfectly choreographed and timed.

But we weren't on a movie set. And every narrow escape left me wholly regretting having suggested we take this route, not to mention fearing for our lives.

“This next turn is really sharp,” I warned him. “You've got to slow down a little.”

He didn't. We squealed our way around it, the ass end of the car shimmying.

“Kyle, you can roll us!”

“This car is built for these corners,” he said between clenched teeth as he concentrated on driving.

“Maybe, but last time I checked, NASCAR wasn't beating down your door for the Daytona 500.”

“Their loss.” He shot out and around another small group of cars.

“Kyle, no!”

He couldn't make it this time. He veered off to the shoulder of the ongoing traffic. I screamed. The McLaren bounced along the rough edge. The shoulder that had flared briefly now started to narrow.

“You have to get back on the road.”

“No shit.”

“Kyle, we're losing the shoulder!” And headed straight toward the side of the mountain about to jut out in front of us.

The last car coming our way flew by, more honking ensued, and Kyle jerked the car back onto the road and crossed over to our lane, ahead of the vehicles he'd wanted to pass.

My head whipped around as I tried to gauge how much distance we'd put between us and the Camaro. That driver had made his own daring passes but lagged several cars behind.

I would have breathed a sigh of relief, had I not caught sight of a black object in the sky. I squinted my eyes.

Was that a—?

“Holy crap,” I choked out. “There's a helicopter.”

“Someone must have called the police.”

The aircraft gained speed, flying toward us. Kyle crested the canyon and blew past the scenic overlook. The curves were gradual, not hairpins. Kyle shifted into fifth and hauled ass. We couldn't shake the copter.

“That's not a police helicopter,” I said. “Or a news crew. Solid black, no logos. Looks pretty high-tech.” My heart thundered. “Son of a bitch! These guys have
helicopters
?”

Kyle took a few less risky passes on a straightaway, but I still couldn't catch my breath.

“We have to ditch this car,” he said.

“Impossible. Once we hit town, they'll catch up to us.”

“We can jump onto I-17 instead of staying on the back road,” Kyle offered. The interstate ran parallel to this neck of the woods.

I gave his idea some thought but then shook my head. “The guys in the air will see the move. That totally puts us out in the open.”

“Well, I'd love to hear
your
suggestions,” he barked.

I didn't have any. Except …

“Slow down,” I demanded.

“Not a chance.”

“Kyle, Fort Tuthill is up ahead. Take the turnoff on the left.” It was marked with tall signs screaming
ARTS & MUSIC FESTIVAL
. Perfect.

There was another line of traffic coming our way. We didn't have much time.

“I don't see how this is a good idea. We—”

“Just do it. Now!”

The razor-sharp veering of the car made the tires whine again. We caught the outer edge of the turnoff onto the asphalt, sputtered a bit, then Kyle corrected our overshooting the corner and put us securely in one lane. Not ours, but we were the only ones on the road, so I didn't mention the issue.

Heart still pounding, I said, “All these campgrounds … we have to be able to hide the car somewhere. Sooner rather than later, because at the end of this path is a wide-open clearing into the fairgrounds and parking lot. We'll be screwed if we dead-end in plain sight.”

To our current advantage, the tall, full ponderosas offered a bit of coverage and, were we to drive into the forest, we'd be beautifully concealed.

“That looks like a decent spot,” Kyle murmured as he surveyed the south-end thicket. He peeled off and we bounced our way along underbrush and dirt, dodging fallen trees and crunching limbs beneath us. The scrapes of branches against the sides and roof of the car made me cringe. Not to mention the lava rocks we drove over. Dane would have a conniption when he learned we'd destroyed his expensive ride. Though for a good cause, so … I tried not to think about how I was going to break this to him.

“Here's a nice little cave.” Kyle slid the McLaren to a stop, nestled in a collection of downed trunks and piled-up limbs, as though the Forest Service had started cleanup work for a seasonal controlled burn.