True Shot (23 page)

At the main highway, Sam pulled into traffic as if the front end of the Toyota weren’t crunched.

“We need a new car,” she said casually, as if she’d said nothing more important than, “I could use a cigarette.”

Mac barked out a laugh. “Ya think?”

He wedged his way between the bucket seats to claim the passenger seat and looked around at the destruction inside the car. No glass had broken, but the air bags had made a huge mess. “Nice driving,” he said, rolling his left shoulder, already sore from where his body had jerked against the safety harness. “You learn that in spy school?”

“Apparently.”

“How’d they find us?”

“The car must be LoJacked.”

“Can’t be. It took them way too long to track us.”

After several miles of silence, Sam pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center and drove around to the back. A trailer sat at a loading dock, but there was no activity around it. She parked the Camry and shut it off. Without a moment of just sitting there to breathe, she got out and went to the trunk.

Mac followed, sparing a glance at the front, which was surprisingly intact, though noticeably crunched. “What’re you doing?” he asked as he joined Sam at the back.

“Trying to figure out how they tracked us.” She popped the trunk and checked out the contents: a navy blue gym bag, an ice scraper, a pair of black winter gloves and a small plastic bin with a lid that held maps and a first-aid kit.

“Nothing suspicious,” Mac said.

Sam reached for the gym bag, zipped it open and dumped it upside down. Out tumbled running shoes, a wrinkled T-shirt and shorts, socks, a hand towel and the smell of dried sweat.

“What are you looking for?”

She didn’t respond as she stalked to the passenger side of the Camry, opened the door and flicked open the glove box. Inside nestled more maps, a small flashlight, a couple of insurance cards, the vehicle’s registration and the car’s manual. She leaned across the seat and lifted the lid on the center console, groping inside with one hand, eyes narrowed with purpose.

Mac had to bite back annoyance at her lack of communication. “I could help you look if you’d tell me—”

Her expression changed to one of triumphant, and she withdrew her hand from the storage compartment.

Mac stared in disbelief at the silver Motorola cell phone resting in her palm. He reached for it. “Does it have GPS?”

“All cell phones have GPS. The important question is, is it on?”

He flipped it open, then winced as the display lit up in welcome. “Well, shit.”

 

 

“I lost them.”

Flinn got up and shut the door of his office. No one was within earshot, but he didn’t want to take any chances. “How could you lose them? I told you exactly where to find them.” Flinn had to fight to loosen his grip on his cell phone before he snapped it at the hinges.

“Bitch disabled my truck. Where do I send the bill for the repairs?”

Flinn’s rage boiled over. “I’m not paying to fix your fucking truck, you fucking moron! You didn’t get the job done!”

“You didn’t tell me the bitch knew how to drive like goddamn Vin Diesel.”

“I told you not to underestimate her. Did you hear me say ‘woman’ and decide you could take her without any effort?”

“Look, dude, it didn’t work out. Not my fault. Now, are we going to settle this like adults or do I need to get angry?”

Flinn snorted into the phone. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,
dude
. I’ll have your licenses pulled by the end of the day. Enjoy your unemployment.”

Flinn slammed his phone closed and fired it at the nearest wall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S
am’s eyes grew heavy as she watched the thick, green foliage of Georgia fly by in a 55-miles-per-hour blur.

It hadn’t taken them long to swipe another car. They’d parked at a gas station and waited for a trusting soul to leave his keys in the ignition and his car running while he ducked inside for a doughnut, coffee, cigarettes or something else he would dearly regret. As soon as Mac and Sam reached the next town, they visited a busy mall parking lot, where they traded that car, an older-model white Chevy Cobalt, for a dark blue Honda Accord. Sam hot-wired the Honda while Mac searched it for any wayward cell phones, then switched license plates on both the Cobalt and the Accord.

Now, they were back on the road, Mac behind the wheel. The even, quiet roar of the tires, interrupted in regular intervals by subtle, horizontal seams in the pavement, insisted on lulling Sam to sleep. She fought it as long as she could, only to slip into a past her conscious brain didn’t remember . . .

 

“I want to make a phone call.” She needed her father. Her
real
father.

“
Clearly, you don’t understand what I’m asking you. I want to know what happened
after
you arrived at Mr. Radnor’s office with a loaded gun.
”

She would, very much. But she also knew better than to trust this man. She didn’t trust anyone, not anymore. Except her sisters. And the man she’d called “Dad” her whole life. She was
such
a fool. She’d wanted answers from the side of the family she’d never met. Her self-centered, closemouthed mother hadn’t provided answers, so she’d sought them on her own. She’d been desperate to find the man who’d helped give her life, the man who’d helped give her the ability to experience other people’s crappy, soul-sucking memories. She’d just wanted
answers
.

She had no response to that, so she just stared at him as blankly as she could while black spots splattered her vision. A killer. Oh, God, she was a
killer
.

Her stomach flipped all over again at the wrongness of it all. He’d told her Robert Radnor was the worst kind of man, that they were going to stop him from victimizing girls and young women. The glimpse she’d gotten inside Radnor’s mind had shown her that Ben was right. She’d gone along with his plot to expose the predator, excited to use her gift to do good things. Ben never once mentioned the word
blackmail.