“No, I don’t think so. Not right now, at least. But we need to ditch this car.”
I’ve been undercover for stories before and have experienced a lot of stuff, but nothing like this. I feel like I’m in a freakin’ action movie, like somewhere along the way, I got mixed up in something way above my pay grade. But I refuse to be the too stupid to live girl who always ends up dead or causing the hero to die because she’s running around like a chicken with her head cut off, panicking at every turn.
I take a deep breath, letting my brain click into the reality my life has become. On the run from the mob, with a hitman chasing us down. Heck, I think I’ve even seen this movie before. The joke falls flat, even in my own brain. With another breath, I realize . . . okay, I can do this.
“Ditch the car? That means we need another one. Do you happen to have another one hidden around here?”
I say it without humor, totally serious and honestly curious considering I don’t know how well-prepared Shane was for all this, but Shane laughs bitterly. “No. Don’t have another handily stashed unfortunately.”
“Okay, we need a shopping center,” I reply, thinking quickly back to a stakeout I did once for a story. “An old one where the security won’t have been updated. We can steal a car from the lot and not be caught on camera.”
Shane looks at me, lifting an eyebrow. “Done this before, have you? Got a juvenile record you don’t like to tell people about?”
“No, but it stands to reason,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant about it. I look up and down the streets around us. We’re not on the highway but close enough that there are plenty of little strip malls nearby. “There. Turn around.”
Shane hangs a U-ey in the street, turning where I indicate, and we pull into the parking lot of a strip mall that looks like it might be on its last legs. There’s a bail bonds shop, a Greyhound bus station, a tattoo parlor, a pizza delivery place, and four empty storefronts that look like gaps in teeth. Down the street, I see a newer, fancier looking mall that’s probably the reason for this mall’s downfall.
He drives across the back row, parking the sedan and turning to me. “Okay, the blue truck beside you,” he says, nodding toward a twenty-year-old Dodge that’s got a ‘For Sale’ sign in one window but not too much dirt otherwise. “I’ll come around, bump it, and then you’re going from this car, through the driver seat of the truck to the passenger side. Put your backpack on and I’ll take the duffel bag. Got it?”
I nod.
Shane gets out, and I see a smear of dark wetness on the seat where he was sitting. If it was a white seat, I’m sure it’d be red. Oh, my gosh, he’s hit, and he didn’t say anything. Anger and fear war in my gut, but I know that leaving his blood here is a bad idea, especially so visible to anyone passing by the car. I reach over, wiping it off with the sleeve of my shirt. It’s not much, but at least it turns into a sort of icky streak that’ll dry to a dark black soon enough.
Shane knocks once on the window, and I open the door, hopping into the truck. Thankfully, the truck has a bench seat and I slide over easily, buckling up as he does the same. He leans over, hissing only slightly under his breath as he fiddles around with the wires for a moment while I try to keep myself unseen.
“Come on, you son of a bitch,” Shane grunts, and a moment later, the engine turns over. It’s sluggish at first before catching, and Shane sits up, letting out a hum of satisfaction, but there’s a hint of pain mixed in from the movement. “Okay. Let’s go.”
It’s a little surprising when we pull out of the lot casually, not speeding to draw attention, and merge back with traffic. After a little bit, I reach up and grab the ‘For Sale’ tag and toss it in the back.
“Thanks,” Shane grunts, his tone reminding me of his security guard grumpiness. I can feel my body calming, the adrenaline starting to wear off, and suddenly I’m feeling like a nap.
But I know Shane’s hurt, and I force myself to pay attention. As soon as we’re on the highway, I turn to him, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re hit. How bad is it?”
He looks at me, then turns his attention back to the road, his lips tight as he speaks. “Just a flesh wound. Bullet nicked me. I’m fine.”
I give him an appraising look, then shake my head. “Don’t lie to me, Shane. I can see it on your face. We’re in deep trouble here. If you’re hurt, we need to address that first.”
Shane reaches over, weaving his fingers into my hair, holding my head in his palm and looking over with affection. “I’m okay. But I need to report in. See if Chucky has found out anything new, because the hitman tracking us shouldn’t have been fucking news. Also, I need to know if the hitman is cleaning up loose ends on his own, or if someone sent him after us.”
“What’s the chances of each?” I ask, and Shane shrugs.
“About fifty-fifty. But whether the hitman is using his own network to find us or one of the bosses, the result is the same. We’re the loose end he’s hunting. But if one of the families is helping him, we’d know who the risk is and who the safety might be. Then we could decide if we should try to outrun this, lay low, or maybe even go back. Hopefully, Chucky will have some intel.”
Chapter 18
Shane
I pull over at a large truck stop, parking in the middle of the lot mixed in with the other cars, knowing they’ll disguise the truck a bit since there’s a chance it’s been reported stolen by now. Best guess, the truck was put out there by one of the workers at the strip mall, and if so, they’ll notice as soon as they get off shift.
Maggie digs in my duffel, handing me the burner phone. I remind myself to buy a new SIM card for it, but one or two more calls shouldn’t be a problem. I turn it on, and before I can even speed-dial Chucky, it rings, and I recognize his number on the display.
Shit, that’s not good. I answer, putting it on speaker and staying silent as we always do as he jumps in. “Shane? You okay?”
“Yeah, Chucky. Fine and fucking dandy, except for the hitman who took us by surprise at the fucking motel,” I reply, holding a finger up for Maggie to stay silent. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Chucky hisses through the phone, sounding upset. “Yeah, I’ve been watching for you to turn the damn phone back on so I could warn you. Got word earlier today that he’s looking for your girl because she saw his face. Loose ends, you know. He wants to disappear.”
I reach across and take Maggie’s hand, her face remarkably stoic for having confirmation that she’s on a hitman’s shit list. “Well, he found us already. Got a few shots off, hit me too. Took a nick to the left bicep, but nothing serious. Meghan’s fine.”
Chucky’s voice drops to a whisper, and I can hear him lean into his mic, the wheeze unmistakable. “We need to talk about her, Shane. Your girl is in some deep shit, not just with the hit.”
Maggie pales slightly, squeezing my hand, and Chucky continues. “You had me check out all the employees at Petals, and I did. I checked out Meghan Postland and she was clean. But when the shit hit the fan, I ran a wider search, and found a Maggie Postland . . .”
Maggie suddenly yanks her hand back, her knees pulling to her chest in a position I know all too well and was happy to see go.
She’s mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” silently, and I can see the fear in her eyes. This isn’t good.
My voice is hard as I answer Chucky. “What about Maggie Postland?”
I hear a few clicks, like he’s typing on his end, and then he reads. “Maggie Postland, 289 Westminster Drive, Apartment 175.”
I nod my head, knowing that’s where I’d taken Maggie the night I drove her home. This is nothing new. “Yeah, and . . .?”