I waited until she’d opened the locker; then, phone in hand and Sam’s number on the screen ready to call, I walked up behind her and said, “Just as well I wasn’t inclined to take the word of a thief and a whore.”
She jumped and turned around, but her expression was one of annoyance more than surprise. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She grimaced. “I guess you’re not as gullible as you seemed.”
“No.” I showed her the phone. “Give me one reason not to hit this number and hand you over.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go for it. I know for a fact that is neither Henry Morretti’s number nor anyone else who provides a contactable front for the sindicati.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “It’s actually the number of someone I think might be much worse where you’re concerned.”
“And who might that be? The cops? They’re hardly likely to be concerned about a widow deciding to take a holiday.”
“Maybe not, but I’m betting the police might be interested in our little conversation—which, by the way, I recorded. However, this isn’t a direct line to any cop.” I watched the amusement flee her face. The fury that took its place was an ugly thing to behold. Finally, I was glimpsing the real Amanda Wilson. “This is the number of a PIT detective.”
“And what is PIT?”
“They’re the Paranormal Investigations Team, and sit somewhere between the police and the military.” I plucked the duffel bag from her hands. She resisted, but only briefly. “Basically, they have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to investigate and solve paranormal crimes. I’m afraid your husband’s death falls under that umbrella.”
“And this should scare me because . . . ?”
“Because they are not bound by the same rules as the police.” I slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped back and waved her ahead of me. “I was in their hands recently. They gave me a drug that not only forced me to answer their questions, but restrained my psychic abilities, leaving me unable to defend myself for several hours afterward.”
Her gaze shot to mine. “And what abilities might you have?”
I gave her a smile that held very little humor. “Run again without holding up your end of our bargain, and you just might find out.”
Her gaze lingered on mine for a minute, as if to assess whether I meant what I said; then she sighed. “There’s a USB in the side pocket. That holds all the promised information.”
“Conveniently, I have no computer to check this fact.” Nevertheless, I found the USB and shoved it in my pocket. Then I searched the rest of the bag, found two more, and took those, too.
Her expression became even more sour, and I hadn’t thought that was possible. “And now it’s my turn to demand you uphold your end of the bargain.”
It was tempting—very tempting—to tell her to go to hell, but I’d learned over my many years that karma had a way of biting you on the ass. Breaking a deal—even if it was with someone like Amanda—was never a wise move.
“You know where the car is, so lead the way.”
She did so. Five minutes later, we were driving out of the garage and heading down Spencer Street.
A casual look in the rearview mirror revealed we were once again being followed by a white Ford. This time, that niggling sense of wrongness became a rock.
“What’s wrong?”
I glanced at Amanda. “We’re being followed.”
She lowered the sun visor and slid open the vanity mirror. “White Ford?”
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“I noticed it parked down the street and remembered the plates.” Her smile held very little in the way of humor. “You tend to notice details in my line of work.”
I bet you did. “Do you still want to head for the airport?”
She hesitated. “Yes. Once I’m through screening, I can acquire someone’s ticket, get out of the state, then disappear overseas.”
A statement that just made me want to stop the car and toss her out. “Then let’s see if we can lose them.”
I didn’t immediately alter my speed, just kept cruising down Spencer Street until we hit a set of lights that were changing. I slowed, as if to stop, then, at the last possible moment, hit the accelerator and shot through the intersection. Car horns blared and I had to swerve around the pedestrian who’d already started crossing, but we got through unscathed.
A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the white Ford pulling out onto the wrong side of the road with the obvious intent of repeating our actions. If another truck or a car didn’t take them out, we had—at best—a couple of minutes. And I wasn’t sure that was going to be enough time given Jackson’s truck was bright red and orange and rather easy to spot among the more mundanely colored vehicles.
I swung onto a side street. The tires screamed and the truck swerved dangerously. I fought for control, then hit the accelerator again. At the end of the street, I made a sharp left and belted down a narrow lane.
Up ahead, someone flung open the door of a parked car.
“Fuck!” Amanda slapped her hands against the dash to brace herself. “Watch out!”
I hit the horn and kept my foot planted. I had a brief glimpse of the driver’s rear end as he dove back inside the car; then I hit the door. The force of the impact wrenched the door free and flung it up and over the truck’s roof. Thankfully, it didn’t appear to touch Jackson’s shiny paintwork, but rather hit the road behind us and bounced into another parked car. I swung right onto another road and didn’t slow as I made my way through the maze of side streets, all the time heading toward the airport.
I eased up only once we turned left onto Mount Alexandria Road. Amanda released a long breath and said, “I’m guessing we lost them?”
I studied the cars behind us. No white Ford, but—given who we were dealing with—that was no guarantee that we were safe. Especially given Jackson’s truck had been parked in front of Amanda’s place for quite a while.
“Maybe.” My voice was grim. “It just depends who was actually following us and whether they placed a tracker on the truck at either your place or at the parking garage.”
Her gaze widened. “Do you think that’s likely?”
I shrugged. “As I said, it depends who we’re dealing with.”
She swore. “You might want to keep breaking speed limits.”
I snorted. “Not on Mount Alexandria Road, I’m not. The last thing we need is to be pulled over by the cops, and they tend to be a little thick on the ground in these parts.”
She swore again and flexed her fingers, making me wonder if she was intending to punch me out and take the truck.
We made it down Mount Alexandria without incident, and I could almost feel the tension slither from Amanda’s body as we swung onto the Tullamarine Freeway. Which was stupid, because we weren’t exactly home free yet. There was still a ten-minute drive before we got to the airport. Maybe I was being fatalistic, but anything could happen.
As it turned out, I wasn’t being fatalistic.
Just as we’d crossed the Mickleham Road overpass, a big black van came out of nowhere and smashed into the rear side of Jackson’s truck, sending us into an uncontrolled spin. I pulled my foot off the accelerator and fought the wheel, trying to drive out of the spin, only to be hit a second time. Amanda screamed, the sound almost lost to the roaring of the engine, the squealing of the tires, and my own cursing.
I saw the tree coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop us from hitting it.
The air bags exploded on impact, and Amanda’s scream abruptly died. For several seconds, there was no sound other than an odd ringing in my head. Then I became aware of creaking metal, the hiss of water, the sound of an engine roaring. Of warm liquid pouring down the side of my face.