Shoving it closed with an audible click, he said, “You can’t quit.”
“I just did.” She changed lanes as she worked feverishly to come up with a new plan. If she took him to her apartment, she could possibly lose him there. She could say she needed to change clothes, go into her bathroom—he couldn’t very well follow her into the bathroom, could he?—and make use of the emergency exit she’d fashioned for herself there. But what if a squad of assassins was already at her building, lying in wait?
“Offering you a job was the easy way to do this. Try dumping me again, and we’ll do it the hard way.”
“Ooh, you’re scaring me now.”
“You should be scared.”
She made a scoffing sound. “Of you? Give me a break. We both know I can take you out with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Beautiful, just so we’re clear, I’ve been pulling my punches with you since we met.”
“Oh, really? Ever occur to you that maybe I’ve been pulling my punches with you?”
“What are you trying to say with that? That you like me? You really, really like me?”
Good one. If she’d been the blushing type, she realized to her horror, that’s what she would be doing. Fortunately, she wasn’t. “That I’m not scared of you, so don’t bother threatening me.”
“I wasn’t saying you should be scared of me. I was saying you should be scared of them. You blow this off, sooner or later they’ll kill you. My bet’s on sooner.”
Okay, so maybe she was a little bit scared. The thought of CIA assassins gave her the willies. It had her casting wary glances at the occupants of nearby cars, at windows and rooflines and even pedestrians, because, while the car windows might be bulletproof, there were other things a good hit squad could try. Like bombs. Or missiles. Or a “runaway” semi. Not that she would ever let so much as a flicker of fear show.
“I’ll take my chances.” Her response was equal parts bravado and lack of options.
“Not on my watch.” His tone was grim.
“This isn’t your watch. This isn’t your anything. It’s me, my life, my decision, and I’m telling you straight-out, you can take your job and shove it.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Just what I said. Why? Explain it to me.”
She threw him a hostile look. “You really want me to spell it out? Fine. I don’t want to work for you. I don’t want to work for Five Eyes. If that’s even really who sent you. See the problem? I don’t believe a word you say. For all I know it was Durand, and he and you think you can use me to find Mason.”
“Anybody ever tell you you have major trust issues?”
She laughed. The sound was not filled with amusement. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re hoping to use me to find Mason. Well, it’s not going to work. To begin with, I have no idea where he is.” The thing was, a lot of those trust issues Colin referred to came from her recent interactions with Mason. The man she’d spent most of her life thinking was her father had sold her out to the CIA. Yes, he’d given her the key to saving herself, and, yes, she hadn’t died, but the betrayal was what stuck with her.
“This is not about Thayer. This is about you.” Colin said the words slowly and with emphasis, as if talking to a particularly dense child. “When this job came up, I knew you were the perfect choice for it. I ran it by some people, they agreed, and here I am. Take the damned job. It’s your only way out.”
“No.”
“How bloody pigheaded can you be? I’m trying to save your life here.”
“I don’t need you to save my life. I need you to get out of it. Go away and stay away.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You might as well, because I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Looks to me like you are.” His gesture encompassed the car.
“Anywhere besides my apartment, where you’re getting out and getting lost.”
“I don’t think so. Here’s the deal—you’re coming with me if I have to handcuff you and frog-march you aboard that plane.”
“Like handcuffing me worked out so well for you the last time.”
“Last time I was thrown off guard by the sexy way you kissed me. That was then, this is now.”
“That kiss get under your skin? Guess that explains why you keep stalking me.”
“If I was stalking you, believe me, you’d never know it.”
Because she was busy keeping an eye out for possible assassins while at the same time running through various escape plans—taking him to a public place, like a crowded bar for a drink, supposedly to talk, and losing him there was where her head was currently at—she didn’t reply. Somewhere in the midst of all her calculations it occurred to her that hitting him with her throwing star/knife/various other lethal weapons hadn’t figured in any of the scenarios she’d come up with. That was when she knew: for her, for now at least, killing him was indeed off the table.
The knowledge was galling.
He said, “You want to tell me why you’d rather face a CIA kill team on your own than come with me?”
“Maybe because I think I have a better chance of surviving on my own than with you?”
“Bollocks.” His eyes narrowed. “You planning to run to somebody else for help? To Thayer? Is that it?”
She threw him an angry glance. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Scare me into running to him so you can follow me?” A possibility made her stiffen. “Is there even really a CIA kill team still hunting me? Or is this all a ploy to get to Mason?”
“You know better than that.”
“No, I actually don’t.”
“Like I said, major trust issues.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I have trust issues because you have lying issues.”
“Right back at you, beautiful.”
They’d reached the busiest part of River Street. The uneven pavers of the cobblestoned street made the steering wheel vibrate slightly beneath Bianca’s hands. Ringing bells from Salvation Army kettle workers, “Silent Night” from a costumed troupe of carolers strolling past the shops, and the clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists as it passed them joined the more ordinary purr of car engines and jumbled voices. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Shoppers crowded the sidewalks. Christmas lights were strung along the rooftops and hung in festoons from the balconies of the historic buildings nestled along the waterfront. The lights blinked to life just as the Jeep passed a busy open-air market. The twinkly explosion of multicolored bulbs felt incongruously festive under the circumstances. That they came on at just that moment drew the gathering twilight to her attention, and alerted her to how close nightfall was. That was underlined when the Jeep’s headlights, set to automatic, came on as well.
“And, yes, Virginia, there really is a CIA kill team hunting you.” His tone was dry.
“Like at this point I’d believe anything you say.”
In the near distance, Talmadge Memorial Bridge was already lit up. It made a spectacular display against the darkening sky. Longer than San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, it spanned the river from Savannah to Hutchinson Island, and with its cables decked out in white Christmas lights it was breathtaking.
She was going to miss it. She was going to miss Savannah.
Tell it to somebody who cares.
He said, “If you didn’t believe me, you wouldn’t be running.”
“I’m not running. I’m heading to my apartment. To get ready for my party.”
“Uh-huh. And you tried to lock me in your building because …?”
“I really, really don’t like you?”
She saw an opening, swerved into the far lane and managed to speed up as the spiderweb of city streets siphoned cars in other directions. The increasing darkness had given her her plan.
Simple was always best.
At the earliest opportunity, say, the next red light, she would surprise him with a side chop to the G-spot—as in, gotcha spot, h
er term for a particularly vulnerable part of the neck—that would, as long as he didn’t see it coming and manage to counter it, render him instantly unconscious. She would follow that up with a jolt from her stun gun, which would have been her first choice to lay him out with except for the twin facts that he knew she had it and she was pretty sure that in the confined space of the car he was going to notice if she went for it. Once he was unconscious, she would park, drag him out of the car, leave him, rush to the safe house, grab what she needed and go.
The key to success lay in the means she used to distract him while she launched the neck chop. She had a feeling he might suspect a rat if she suddenly came out with something along the lines of “Look! Over there!”
The traffic light at the upcoming intersection turned yellow. Braking, she tensed ever so slightly, preparing to make her move.
He said, “Two blocks up, you want to hang a right. That’ll take us to I-95 North.”
Which would take them to Lowcountry Airport, a little less than an hour’s drive away.
Uh-uh. No.
She thought about pretending she was giving up, was prepared to do what he wanted, to take the job he offered.
He won’t fall for it. Not after the fiasco with the doors and the baseball bat. And other things.
In that case, might as well be brutally honest.
“You know you’re wasting your time, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ever hear that old saying about how you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink?”
“What about it?”
“Even if you somehow managed to scare or blackmail or shanghai me to wherever, there’s no way you can make me impersonate whoever it is you want me to impersonate.”
“Think not?”
“I know not.”
The Jeep stopped. They were the first car in line at the light. Traffic shot out in front of them from the cross street. The gloomy-gray interior of the Jeep was bathed in a kaleidoscope of changing colors caused by a combination of the red light, the Christmas lights and a procession of headlights flashing past. Something about the constantly changing nature of the light made it almost as concealing as total darkness would have been.
He said, “What if I told you this job is a matter of national security? International security?”
Time to make her move.
“Wow! That does make a difference, except—I don’t care.”
The threat of a sniper was real. The chance that a sniper would be in position exactly there, at that red light, at that moment, ready to take her out, was, she judged, remote.
Go for it.
Colin’s face had hardened. He was saying, “—don’t think you fully understand the situation. I own you. You don’t do what I tell you, I’ll have you arrested. Hit you with—”
While looking at him with what she hoped came off as mocking attention, she nudged the button on her door that controlled his window.
“—the full ‘international criminal’ rap. The investigation will involve your business, your friends. They—”
Whir. His window came down. As she’d known he must, he jerked a look toward it even as (because there was no sense in tempting fate more than she had to) it started to go back up again.
Quick as a striking cobra, she let loose with a side chop to his neck.
7
Only to have the blow deflected and her hand grabbed right out of the air.
Bianca froze. Her instant reaction: Crap, he’s fast.
The only outward indication of surprise she gave was the slight widening of her eyes.
She and Colin stared at each other over their locked hands. Antagonism sparked between them. His hand was warm, slightly rough and way bigger than hers. It utterly engulfed her palm and slender fingers. His grip was steely. Any impartial observer would be justified in thinking that he could crush her hand at will.
She had no doubt whatsoever about her ability to break his grip.
The question was, was it smart to go full-on supersoldier on him now?
Her foot, of necessity, stayed on the brake. In a pitched battle, it would certainly shift. The cramped interior of the Jeep was less than ideal for the kind of down and dirty fight she would have to wage to defeat him. They were surrounded by other vehicles, complete with drivers and passengers, and pedestrians, also known as witnesses with cell phones and 911 at their fingertips. And if there really was a CIA kill team in the vicinity, stopping traffic in the middle of a busy intersection for the length of the epic battle that would be forthcoming if she persevered was probably a really good way to draw their attention.
The thing to do was back down. For the time being.
“Close but no cigar.” He tightened his grip on her hand with the goal, she surmised, of letting her feel his superior strength. She managed not to smirk at him. “Think I can’t read your tells by this time?”
That took care of her impulse to smirk. Tells? She’d given him a tell?
“You’re good.” She said it grudgingly, like she was chagrined over being bested. Which, indeed, she was, temporary as the setback might be. The burning question she was left with was, what was the tell?
“You’re right,” he said.
Whir.
His window went down again.
“You really going to try that twice?” he asked with disgust, and released her hand. The window went back up.
The thing was, the hand he hadn’t been holding was flattened against her stomach. The hand he had been holding—well, he’d been holding it.
She frowned at the window.
Swish, swish. Swish, swish.
The windshield wipers activated, swiping frantically across the dry-as-dust windshield.
She blinked at them. Then she tried to turn them off.
She couldn’t.
The monitor in the center of the dashboard, the one that displayed the outside temperature and a number of other bits of un-vital information, flickered, then went black.
The radio came on, blaring the R&B-flavored Latin pop of Camila Cabello’s “Havana.”
His eyes narrowed at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
She punched the radio button, trying to turn it off. Nada.
“I’m not doing anything. The radio, the windshield wipers, came on by themselves. I can’t turn them off.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the sexy wail of the song. She was still trying, punching the radio button, twisting the windshield wiper control, frowning at the dark monitor, achieving nothing.
He stabbed at the radio’s control button with an impatient forefinger. His try wasn’t any more successful than hers. “Forget it, whatever you’re up to. It’s not going to wor—”
He broke off as the Jeep jumped forward, surging past the car waiting in the lane beside it. There it stopped, for just about long enough for him to turn his head and look at her. It then began to slowly roll toward the red light and the busy intersection with complete disregard for the rush of cross-street traffic zooming out in front of them.
“Damn it to hell, Bianca!”
“It’s not me!”
Pulse leaping, eyes on the explosion of cars in their path, Bianca ground the foot she already had smashed down on the brakes practically through the floor.
“The brakes aren’t working!”
Bracing a hand against the dashboard, his eyes on the speeding cars in front of them, too, Colin yelped, “For God’s sake, knock it off!”
“It’s not me! I can’t!” She demonstrated by lifting her foot and jamming it back down on the brake as hard as she could. Several times. They were yards away from disaster. “I swear it’s not me!”
“Then what the hell is it?” He lunged into her space to punch the keyless ignition button in an attempt to shut down the engine. Still nada. He repeatedly jammed the heel of his hand against the small black rectangle. “Damned thing won’t turn off.”
She scrabbled at the door handle, pushed
at the door, ready to roll out onto the pavement to escape. The door wouldn’t open. She jabbed at the lock, then pulled at it. It stayed locked. Her mouth went dry. Her stomach cramped. “The lock’s stuck!”
“Try the key.” Eyes glued to the jet stream of vehicles now only feet in front of them, Colin grabbed the gearshift, yanked it down into Neutral. Nothing.
“I am.” She’d already scooped the key out of the console and was pressing her thumb down frantically on each of the tiny buttons in hopes of turning the car off, unlocking the door, something. At the same time she jerked the steering wheel to the left in an attempt to turn the Jeep into the flow of traffic and thus avoid being T-boned. “Nothing’s working.”
She practically stood on the brake as a bus-sized RV rattled past, way too close for comfort.
The Jeep kept moving. The radio mourned Ha-va-a-na. The wipers went swish, swish.
A terrible suspicion reared its ugly head. Her stomach turned inside out. If she was right, the CIA kill team was there for real.
“Steer away from the cars!” Colin’s voice was harsh.
“Ya think?” Still frantically pumping the brakes, she spun the wheel in the opposite direction as the prospect of imminent death in a car crash made her heart jackhammer. Meanwhile he was cursing a blue streak as he tried to open his door without success. Suspicion jelled into certainty, and she faced the horrible truth. “It’s Boston brakes. It’s got to be.”
The words squeaked out of her fear-tightened throat.
“What?” He threw the question at her as they worked in a tightly controlled frenzy to find some way to stop the car, open the doors, something.
“Boston brakes!” She shrieked it at him this time. The words bounced off the hard surfaces of the metal eggshell in which they were trapped.
The Fifth Doctrine: The Guardian Series Book 3 Page 7
