TWENTY-FOUR

She froze. The steady click of the hazards seemed to grow louder.

Stupid. How did I let this happen?

“Put your hands on that window.” The voice a rough whisper.

She thought about turning the Maglite to blind him, pulling at the tab until the Glock was in her hand.

The muzzle touched the base of her skull.

“I’ll do you right now. I don’t give a fuck.”

The driver’s door opened, and another man got out. He wore a denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, his face in shadow. She wondered if one of them had been the driver of the gray Toyota.

The one behind her reached around and slapped the Maglite from her hand. It hit the blacktop, went out. He pushed her into the side of the Range Rover, pressing on the gun so her cheek touched window glass. His other hand came around, brushed across her stomach and down to the waistpack. He found the buckle and tugged at it until the weight fell away from her. It thunked on the ground.

The gun left her head.

“Open the door.” His voice husky as if from a throat injury.

Remember that detail. Remember everything.

“I’m not getting in there.”

The muzzle again, at the nape of her neck.

“I’m not,” she said.

“No? Then maybe we’ll go back to where you dropped that boy off. Do our talking there. Your choice.”

She closed her eyes. Don’t panic. Think.

“We need to hurry up,” the driver said.

“I called it in when I saw your vehicle,” she said. “There’ll be deputies here any minute.”

“Not soon enough for you.”

He caught the collar of her sweatshirt, pulled her away, and kicked her left leg out from under her. She went down onto her side, grunting with the impact, her leg twisted beneath her.

“DeWayne, what the fuck?” the driver said.

Silence. Then the man behind her said “You stupid, you know that?” and she knew he was talking to the driver. Now they would kill her for sure.

“Get up.” He hauled up on her sweatshirt and she stood, her left leg threatening to buckle under her. He pulled at the door latch until it opened, the interior light showing a bench seat within, tan leather upholstery. He pushed her in.

“Get down on the floor,” he said. Then to the driver, “Get her ride. Pull it off the road. Kill those lights.”

“Why?”

“Can’t leave it sitting out there. Just do it.”

DeWayne crowded in behind her, pushed her down. The muzzle returned to the back of her skull. He pulled the door shut behind him.

“Be cool. We just want to holler at you a little. Don’t do nothing stupid, make me put one in your dome.”

She heard the Blazer backup, crunch against tree branches. The headlights and emergency flashers went off, the inside of the Range Rover going dark.

She lay with her right cheek pressed into the carpet, DeWayne’s weight on her. Her left leg throbbed.

Pain is good. Pain means you’re alive.

The driver got behind the wheel.

“We need to get out of here, man,” he said.

He started the engine, shut the hazards off, backed up into the road.

DeWayne took the gun from her head.

“Just stay there,” he said. “Nothing gonna happen to you.”

He reached into the front, pressed a switch that reclined the passenger seat enough that he could squeeze past her and into it. She looked up at him for the first time. He was half-turned to face her, a chromed automatic in his left hand, her waistpack in his lap. He wore a hooded black sweatshirt, had a lazy left eye.

Another detail. Remember it.

He pushed the hood back, looked down at her. He was heavier than the driver, but there was a similarity in their features.

“Where we going?” the driver said. “Where we taking her?”

“Just drive. We’ll do our talking right here.”

She tried to sit up.

“Stay down there,” DeWayne said. “We cool like this.”

They picked up speed. She wondered how long Angie had waited to put the call out, if there was a cruiser behind them somewhere now.

Too late.

DeWayne pulled the tab on the waistpack. The front flap fell away, exposing the Glock.

“Check this shit out,” he said. He tugged it free. “Sweet.”

He opened the big glove box, put the Glock inside, shut it.

“We gonna make this brief,” he said to her. “Where it at?” He moved the gun to his right hand.

“I don’t know what you-” she said, and he leaned forward and slapped her hard in the face. It snapped her head to the side, stung her cheek. Tears came to her eyes.

“Gonna be a long night, you keep that shit up,” he said.

“We should go back to her house,” the driver said. “Nobody there now.”

“Nah,” DeWayne said. “They find her car, they might go there looking for her. We cool where we are.”

“I don’t like this fog, man. I can’t see shit.”

“Just take it slow. We be all right.” He looked back at her. “I’ll say it again. Where it at?”

“I don’t understand.” The fear strong inside her now. They wanted something she couldn’t give them. When they realized that, she’d be no more use to them.

“What, your boyfriend cut you out of the deal? Didn’t give you a slice of that nice pie? Three hundred and fifty gees. Should be enough to go around. He keep all that shit himself?”

Three hundred and fifty thousand.

She thought about the empty compartment in the Honda.

Oh Christ, Billy, what did you do?

The Blazer was gone from the woman’s driveway, only one light on in the house. Morgan cruised by slow. No movement inside. If the twins had been here, they were gone.

Flynn had said he’d needed time to get the money, would call tomorrow and name the place. It might be a setup, or maybe he’d realized Morgan was right, that the only way clear of this was to deal.

The only loose end was the twins. Running around out there, muddying the waters. Making things complicated that should have been simple. He headed back toward the county road, the fog thick now, no other cars out. The Range Rover would be hard to miss. If they were out there, he would find them.

“Must be a greedy motherfucker,” DeWayne said. “Leave you out, not even give you a taste.”

Tell him something. Anything. Keep him talking. Play for time.

“I don’t know where the money’s at,” she said.

“But you know who do, right?”

Wondering how much they knew, how far she could bluff them.

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“We got all night,” he said. “So maybe we go back, get that little one, take him for a ride with us, improve your memory. What you think?”

“That won’t help.”

“We’ll find out.”

Headlights in the rearview, far back but moving fast. Finally.

“Yo,” the driver said.

DeWayne looked out the back window.

“Maybe she was telling the truth,” the driver said. “About calling it in.”

The headlights grew.

“Slow down,” DeWayne said. “If it’s just some car, it’ll pass. If it’s police, he’ll try to get up on us. If he does, pull over. I’ll take care of it.”

“You need to stop this vehicle and let me out,” she said. “That’s your only chance to get away.”

“Quiet, bitch.”

The Range Rover slowed. The headlights held steady behind them.

“I don’t like this shit,” the driver said.

“Just chill. Watch the road.”

The headlights larger.

“DeWayne,” the driver said.

Sara looked at the door, the latch in easy reach. If they pulled over, she’d grab for it, try to get out, warn the deputy if she could.

And get shot in the back maybe. But what other choices are there? Better to take the chance running than stay in here.

“Be cool,” DeWayne said. “If it were police, he would’ve lit us up already.”

Behind them, the car’s turn signal blinked.

The driver let out his breath. “It’s all right. He’s passing.”