Twisted Shadows (16 page)

He turned on the headlights, and she sat back and relaxed. Oddly enough she was comfortable with him. She didn't feel the need to chatter any longer, or even ask questions.

She wondered if he felt the same.

Then she became aware of his glancing into the rearview mirror. More, she thought, than necessary. She looked over her shoulder.

There seemed to be nothing other than the normal traffic.

For a moment, her mind went back to the burglary of her house.

She decided to mention it. “I told you I was burglarized before coming here.”

He nodded, his eyes intent on the road ahead.

“I thought it might be a coincidence.”

“There are damned few coincidences in this family,” he said. “What did they take?”

“Nothing valuable. I came home from a run and apparently surprised whomever it was.”

His gaze left the road again. It was only for an instant but she saw surprise, and something else there. “You said nothing valuable was taken? Was
anything
taken?”

“An address book.”

She heard him swear softly.

“Do you know something I should?” she asked.

“Only that I'm not surprised.”

“Why would my father …?”

“
Your
father now,” he asked. “How quickly we come to accept.”

“I've had more time.”

“And no evidence.”

“My mother's word.”

“Oh, yes, your mother's word. Sorry, I can't place much faith in that.” He looked in the rearview mirror again. His face tensed. Then he turned onto another road, one lined with commercial activity.

“You still don't believe?”

“Oh, I believe all right, though I wouldn't believe my father if he swore on a stack of Bibles. He uses people, Samantha. And people who believe him die. Remember that.”

“He said my mother's not in danger. Can I believe that?”

“No,” he said flatly.

Even as he issued the damning word, Sam saw him look at the rearview mirror again. She turned and squinted at the headlights behind them. They were close. Too close. No more than two or three feet from their car.

Nick made one left turn and then another onto an overpass. The car lights behind them receded, then closed the distance again. Instinctively she grasped the armrest.

The other car bumped them from behind.

Her gaze shot to Nick as he sped up, his gaze glued to the road, his mouth tight.

She looked at the speedometer. Eighty miles an hour, and still the needle moved forward.

She looked back at the car gaining on them, its headlights looking like the eyes of a predator intent on making a kill.

The vehicle hit their car again, harder. If she had not fastened her seat belt, her head would have struck the window.

“What are they doing?” she asked through suddenly dry lips.

Nicholas's face tensed as he struggled with the wheel. They were being pushed headlong into oncoming traffic.

She braced for impact as he twisted the wheel to the far right.

Their wheels caught the shoulder. The car that had trailed them hit the left rear of their car, knocking it toward the edge of the road and the forbidding blackness of a drop.

She couldn't scream, couldn't stop lurching against the seat belt. She heard a loud whooshing sound as the airbag exploded, and suddenly she could see nothing as her body was shoved backward, all her breath pushed out of her lungs.

She couldn't move her arms or legs as she struggled for air. Her chest hurt as if an anvil had been thrown against it.

Pain spread from one part of her body to another as she tried to see Nick through the darkness. The horn on the car was blaring, pressed down by his weight once the airbag deflated.

Then she saw him move.

“Are you all right?” Nick asked. His voice was thick.

She turned to look through shattered windows, aware of tiny cuts caused by pieces of glass now scattered over her clothing and seat. “I think—” Her voice abruptly left her at the sight of a figure next to the window. For a split second, she felt relief, then she saw a ski mask and a gun raised and aimed at her.

Nick leaned in front of her. A soft burst of sound, like a wheezing gasp, seemed to fill every corner of her awareness.

Nick slammed backward and slumped.

She cried out, wanting to reach for him, yet unable to move for the shock, paralyzing her. All she could do was stare at the figure … at the gun.

Then both were gone, the figure fading into darkness.

“Nick,” she said.

“It's … all right,” he said. “Just …” His voice turned into a groan.

A plume of smoke rose from the smashed front of the car. Heart jumping in her chest, she fumbled with her seat belt. The nylon webbing released her suddenly and she all but fell to the side, reaching for Nick.

She forced her fingers to probe gently. The wound was not his chest … not his stomach. He groaned again when she touched his arm. She felt something warm and wet on her hands.

“Nick? Can you move?”

“I think so.”

Despite the pain in her chest from the airbag that had now disintegrated, she managed to unbuckle his seat belt.

“We have to get out,” Nick said, his voice hoarse.

Smoke was creeping inside the car through the shattered windows and the fresh air vent near the floor.

She leaned forward over him to open the door on his side. Her own was pinned against a culvert.

His door was stuck fast.

He tried to help her force open the door. It wouldn't budge.

“Get out,” he said. “Go over me.”

Ignoring the pain stabbing at her ribs, she wriggled over him, trying to avoid his arm that hung at an odd angle. She tumbled out the smashed window, sprawling on the ground.

A flicker of flame became visible. Nicholas. Dear God, she hadn't just met him to lose him.

“Run,” Nick said, pushing against the door.

Instead she started pulling at the door, even as she saw the flame move toward the gas tank.

“The window,” she said. “Climb out.”

He tried, angling his body as blood poured from his wound. “Go,” he ordered again.

She grabbed his shoulders, pulling as he tried to push. He fell out, taking her down with him.

She felt the heat from the car. In seconds it would explode.

She tried to lift him up, but he fell back. “Nick, help me.”

But he was dead weight.
Unconscious
.

Her heart pounded till it almost burst from her chest. She knew she couldn't move him alone.

Not in time.

Still, she grabbed one of his arms.

And prayed.

twelve

Nate cursed as the car ahead of him sped up and bumped Merritt's car.

He'd known the second car was tailing Merritt. It hadn't occurred to him that actual harm was the intent.

It should have. Samantha Carroll was a threat to virtually every branch of the Merritta family as well as to opposing factions. Organized crime was just that—organized and carefully controlled. Unknown elements rarely were controllable and therefore were to be eliminated.

The car following Merritt accelerated, and Nate realized he wouldn't be able to close the distance between them in time. Not if the driver of the second car was serious about doing damage.

It was. The car rammed into Merritt's again, this time leaving no room for doubt that this was more than a friendly little warning.

Neither Merritt nor the driver of the car following him seemed to notice that Nate was gaining on them. He was in his personal car—a 1990 BMW he'd bought cheap in a government sale—which he'd thought would be less obvious in this neighborhood. Now he regretted the fact he didn't have a radio.

He'd known from the phone tap on Merritt's home that she would be at Paul Merritta's. He'd lost her earlier, and that had irritated him no end. He didn't intend to lose her again.

Merritt took a turn leading to the Boston Post Road, obviously hoping to outrun whoever was following him.

Nate checked the road ahead and behind, and floored the gas pedal, his gut twisting at the thought of Samantha Carroll in the car ahead.

He thought of everything they'd discovered about her in the past few days. Samantha Carroll of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Model citizen, pillar of the business community of her town, excellent credit rating, member in the local Better Business Bureau and active in the Chamber of Commerce. Master's degree in business from Stanford. One speeding ticket that he could find.

And then there was Samantha Carroll—daughter of crime boss, twin sister of suspected accomplice, if not mastermind, of money laundering operations and heir to the reins of the “family.” Samantha Carroll—obvious target of opposing factions.

And someone was after her. But who? Opposing families? Or members of her own newly discovered family?

Maybe both.

She'd looked more promising than he'd ever imagined. She was a respected member of the community, a role she would probably like to keep both for herself and for her mother.

If she didn't cooperate voluntarily, he might have a weapon there.

He pushed away the twinge of guilt he felt. Putting away the Merrittas justified a hell of a lot of personal reservations about his methods. Paul Merritta had never had any reservations about murder. Nate's stomach tightened at the thought, at the memory that never left him.

But now her life was in jeopardy and he found he didn't give a damn about using her.

The car ahead was closing in on Merritt's car again. Merritt, he knew, had a sports car, but tonight he drove a dark sedan that was no match for the large car on its tail.

Nate noted the make, model and license number of the tailing car. Like his own, the car was expensive. Unlike his, the windows were tinted.

Nate saw a stop sign and a car turning into the road. He hit the brakes to avoid striking it. His car skidded several feet, almost hitting a fence. He backed up, but then another car had cut in front.

He swore as he tried to maneuver around the two cars that blocked him. He leaned on the horn but that only got him a finger in the air from the car ahead. The traffic in the other lane was steady and he couldn't get around them. Then they hit a light, and he was neatly pinned in. Blocked.

Merritt's car and the one following it disappeared.

Hell with this. He edged onto the shoulder that was far too close to a fence. Hearing the crunch as the side of his car hit the fence, he managed to get around one car, then the other. He speeded up and turned onto the main road.

He almost passed it. Would have if he hadn't seen the car parked on the edge of the road, its lights off. He slowed, stopped, just as he saw a man dressed in black slip inside the car. The car screeched off, leaving a trail of gravel and dust behind it.

He wanted to go after it. Instead he looked down and saw the passenger side of a car smashed against a culvert.

He parked his car, called 911 on his cell phone, then left the BMW, half sliding, half running down the hill.

Samantha Carroll was trying to tug a large body away from the wrecked vehicle. He saw the smoke, smelled the gas.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said.

“No,” she said. “He's unconscious.”

“Damm it, I'll get him.” He leaned down and put an arm under Merritt's. He half lifted him. Samantha disobeyed and put her arm under the other one. Together they dragged, half carried him. A loud
whoosh
followed by an explosion filled the air as they stumbled away from the car.

The three of them fell forward, flattened to the ground by the blast and the wave of heat. A wail of sirens joined in the hellish chorus.

Merritt was unconscious, either from a head wound or loss of blood. Nate rolled him over and tore Merritt's shirt open. Blood poured from a neat hole in his arm. He was also bleeding from a number of cuts inflicted by shattered glass. So was Samantha Carroll.

Merritt's wound was obviously more pressing.

“Help him,” Samantha whispered as she struggled to sit. “Please.”

Silently Nate tore a piece from his shirt and pressed it down on the wound. Samantha held Merritt's head. “Help's coming, Nick,” she said. She made her voice low, soothing, steady, startling Nate with her presence of mind.

She turned to him. “Thank you.”

He wanted to take credit, which might put her in debt to him. But oddly enough he couldn't quite do it. Not when she had risked her own life to save her brother.

“You did most of it,” he said honestly. “What happened?”

“Someone forced us off the road, and then a man in a ski mask came down and …”

“And?”

“He pointed a gun at me. Nick leaned in front of me. He was hit with a bullet meant for me.”

A police car roared to a stop above them, then an ambulance, followed by another police car. Emergency techs came sliding down the bank.

He stood and held out a hand to her, helping her to her feet. Perhaps he would have a few moments to earn her confidence.

But that hope was dashed when he recognized one of the police officers. The man had been burned recently by the FBI, his bust ruined when the Bureau took the suspect in as an informant.

The officer took one look at him, then at Nick Merritt. “What in the hell.”

“Someone forced him off the road,” Nate said.

“And you were just behind him? A coincidence, I suppose.”

“No, I was following him.”

He saw Samantha stiffen, a momentary suspicion cross her face.

“And how did he get shot?”

Samantha broke in. “We were forced off the road, then someone—wearing a ski mask—came down and shot at me.”

“But Merritt was hit?” The officer's voice was full of disbelief. “And a mystery man in a ski mask just disappeared?” He looked back and forth between both of them. “We'll need statements from all of you.”