Wilder wanted to reach for the Glock again. Arrogant asshole-as if Lucy were something he owned and could keep or give away.

"It's a good deal, mate," Nash said.

"I'm not your mate."

"Screw you," Nash said, his face tensing again. "Go back to Bragg. You're not part of this."

"You're not part of anything," Wilder said. "What happened, the SAS throw you out for faking it? Got no use for the fastest gun in the West?"

"I'm real SAS," Nash spat.

" Were real. You aren't one of them anymore. No team. You're a gun for hire, mate."

"Fuck you." Nash stepped forward and Wilder tensed just as the camper door opened and Lucy came out, jeans and a shirt over her Wonder Woman stuff.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said, and both men eased back. "Whatever it is, knock it off. Gloom just called and said Stephanie passed him on the highway, going hell-bent for leather away from the hotel. Driving your van, Connor. What's going on?"

"My van?" Nash asked, eyes sliding left again.

That's a tell, Wilder thought and saw Lucy press her lips together; she knew it, too.

"Don't lie to me; what's going on?"

Nash shrugged. "I don't know. The van was missing when I came to get it. I was going to get Doc and look for it but then Wilder here-"

"What's in the van?" Lucy said.

"Stunt equipment," Nash said. "Prop guns."

"Why do you have the prop guns?" Lucy said, coming closer.

"Because I'm the propmaster on this shoot," Nash said. "Jesus, Lucy, stop micromanaging."

"Then you start managing," Lucy snapped and turned to Wilder. "] have to find her. If she takes that stuff and dumps it, we don't shoot tomorrow."

Then why isn't Nash going nuts? Wilder thought, but he jerked his head toward his Jeep. "Come on, I'll drive."

"Wait a minute," Nash said, but Lucy was already heading for the Jeep. "Oh, relax," he called after them. "Just let her go, she'll bring it back."

Wilder got in the driver's side and started the engine, and Nash ran up and swung himself into the backseat at the last minute.

"You're overreacting," he said to them both.

"Where was she going?" Wilder asked Lucy.

"Gloom said she turned onto Route 17."

"Just let her go," Nash said, and Wilder took off for Route 17.

Tyler was having a good night.

He'd gone into town and gotten some real food-fuck the Boss, he wasn't living on warm beer and stale Cheetos-ogled some waitresses, gotten the DVD with the Actress in it, and then come back in time to get new orders: stop stunt van-route 17.

He was humming Warren Zevon's "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner"-a classic song and one his sniper unit in Iraq had favored before going out to blow some heads off-as he cut the wire leading to the warning lights on the drawbridge. He wrapped black electrical tape around both ends and connected them with a rubber band so he could find them later. Then he walked back toward the bridge along the two-lane road, breathing the cool night air blowing over the marsh, feeling the water soaking his wet suit.

He reached the bridge, unzipped the waterproof pack around his waist, pulled out a small GPS tracking unit, backlit it, and peered at the screen. It showed a small blinking dot moving along that road, about a mile away and approaching fast. The Lojack on the van. He looked to the north and saw the slightest tinge of glow.

Everything was set.

Tyler walked back to the northern end of the bridge onto dry land and then climbed over the guardrail and slithered into the muck until he found a solid perch where he could watch the road to the north. He could see the headlights clearly now. On high beam. Coming fast. He pulled out a small transmitter and pressed the red button. With a groan of metal gears grinding, the bridge began to turn on the center pedestal, opening without the warning lights alerting the driver.

Tyler's head went back and forth, as if he were at a tennis match, watching the progress of the bridge opening and then the van approaching. He was up and moving toward the road as the van smashed full speed into the right steel truss, moving so fast it actually slid up the truss about five feet before smashing back down and coming to a halt in the center of the bridge.

Tyler was still whistling as he hopped the railing and ran toward the van. Just before he reached the van, he glanced north and south, checking for lights. Nothing. He had thirty seconds, he estimated, in order to be safe. He hit the button and the bridge slowly began turning back to its normal position.

He reached the van and looked in the driver's window. The driver was wearing a seat belt, her body held upright in it. A woman. Dressed in black. Unconscious. Too bad that little snot with the binoculars was too young to drive. He'd snap her like a twig.

Tyler grabbed the woman's jaw, twisted her head, and checked the pulse in her neck. Faint but there. The distant sound of a car startled him. Glancing back, he saw headlights. He ran to the place where he had cut the wire and unpeeled the black tape, splicing the wires together and then wrapping the tape around them. He climbed over the railing and slid into the Savannah River. Then, as he heard a car pull up, brakes screaming, he began swimming with the current, away from the site of the wreck, toward the waiting warm beer and laptop with the DVD loaded in it. It was a damn good night.

Wilder had tried to be businesslike as they sped down Route 17. He was helping the boss find some missing equipment, that was all.

He stole a look at Lucy in the moonlight. She was staring straight ahead through the windshield, her long hair blowing back, un-braided, just the way he'd imagined it, except that instead of the desert they were driving across the lowlands of South Carolina and they had that dipshit Nash in the backseat. This fantasy needs work, he thought.

"If you'd just let me handle this," Nash said.

"You're never handling anything of mine ever again," Lucy said.

All right, Wilder thought, and felt much better about Nash being in the backseat.

Then Lucy leaned forward and yelled, "Stop," and Wilder saw it, too, Nash's van smashed in the middle of the bridge.

"What the fuck?" Nash said, finally sounding mad.

"Stephanie," Lucy said as Wilder braked at the last second, sliding the Jeep to a halt a few feet shy of the wreck.

"My van," Nash said, and then Lucy was out of the Jeep-Wilder following-afraid of what she'd find.

Chapter 13

Lucy saw Stephanie bloody behind the wheel, and said, "No!" She yanked open the door and then J.T. grabbed her.

"Don't touch her," he said, and Lucy stopped, knowing he was right.

He reached across Stephanie carefully, turned the engine off, and pulled out the keys, and Stephanie groaned and tried to straighten against the seat belt that held her.

"Stephanie, it's okay, we're here," Lucy said. "Where does it hurt? Can you move?"

J.T. was punching 911 into his cell phone, looking grim. Don't let her be dying, Lucy thought and put her hand gently on Stephanie's shoulder, barely touching her. "Stephanie?'

Stephanie turned her head, her face twisted, blood smeared on her mouth. "This is your fault," she said, her voice thick.

She coughed and then moaned, and Lucy said, "J.T.'s calling 911. Somebody will be here soon. Can I help-Is there anything-"

"Go away." Stephanie coughed, her head drooping, and Lucy stepped back, afraid to upset her more. "Nash. Is he-"

"Connor, get over here," Lucy yelled, and he came around the back of the van. "She's hurt and she wants you."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Nash came up to the window. "You okay?" he said to Stephanie.