“Yes, she’s here,” the woman said. “The dog had to have surgery—”
I didn’t wait to hear what else she was going to tell him. Backing up, I went down the hallway, searching for an exit. A door blocked my path, but it was unlocked and I hurried through it, spotting an EXIT sign at the rear of the building.
I was almost there when I heard a “Hey!” from behind me. Instinct made me turn and look in time to see the guy pointing his gun at me. I dove through the door just as the shot sounded. It ricocheted off the slamming door and I hit the ground running.
Running for your life isn’t the same thing as running for anything ever before. No matter what race I’d run as a child or teen, or how fast I’d wanted to clock a mile on the track, none of it compared to knowing that if I didn’t go faster, I’d be dead.
The door to the truck was still hanging open and I could only be grateful for the few precious seconds that saved me as I jumped in and started the engine. As before, the old truck roared to life immediately and I gunned it, seeing the guy once again in my rearview mirror. This time, he fired at the truck. I screamed, ducking down, but then was quickly out of range.
I drove aimlessly for a few minutes, just trying to get myself under control. The tears had dried up, thank God. It was becoming dangerously clear that if I didn’t keep my wits about me, I’d end up dead.
Parker. I needed to call him.
Pulling out my cell, I hit his speed dial. To my dismay, the call wasn’t picked up but went to voice mail.
“Parker, it’s me,” I said. My voice was shaky and I took a breath to try and steady it. “Someone came to the house. I don’t know how, but he found me. McClane got hurt and I took him to the vet. I think the guy is following me somehow …” And it hit me. Shit. My phone. Parker had even warned me about it. Maybe that’s why Parker hadn’t answered. His phone was off, too.
“I’m going to get rid of my phone,” I said. “I’ll call you again from another.”
Ending the call, I tossed the phone out the window, then kept on driving.
The only thing I could think of to do was head to my parents’ house, but before I went there, I had to tell Ryker what was going on.
Though it was early afternoon, I headed for the bar where Malone had told me I could find him. It was in an older section of downtown where the buildings were closer together and the sunlight didn’t quite reach all the dark nooks and crannies of the street.
I was lucky enough that someone pulled out of a parking spot on the street just as I pulled up, so while it took me three tries, I was able to parallel park the truck. Hopping out, I glanced around before hesitantly going inside.
It was an old Irish bar, with Guinness signs prominently displayed on the walls and windows. The bar, floors, and furniture were made from heavy, dark wood that would have cost a fortune nowadays to use but had obviously been there since the place was built.
A couple of pool tables were in the back, and two men were playing a game on one. They didn’t glance up from their game, but the man sitting at the bar did. Old and wizened, he looked as though he might’ve been grown on the barstool upon which he sat, planted when the place had opened and not moving from that spot ever since. He was nursing a beer. Considering the hour, I wasn’t surprised that not many people were in the place.
“Jameson, straight up,” I ordered from the bartender. He raised an eyebrow, but gave me what I wanted. I dug a crumpled ten from my jeans’ pocket and handed it over, then tossed back the shot in one swallow.
I asked for a water, which I took to a far table in the corner, cloaked in shadows. I could keep my back to the wall and have a good view of the room as well as the door. A hallway led to the back and I saw a dimly lit EXIT sign, so if I had to leave quickly, I could.
I was exhausted. The adrenaline was gone, as was the terror that had propelled me to stay one step ahead of whoever this guy was following me, and I wished I could lie down and sleep for a week.
A woman walked in from the back—I wasn’t sure where she’d come from as the back door hadn’t opened—and went to the bar. She was really pretty, with deep red hair and eyes so green I could see their color even from where I sat. She was also tiny, not only in stature, but she had little bones and was that kind of petite I’d always envied. My legs were too long and my bones too big to ever be that little, even if I lost twenty pounds. Not that that was happening anytime soon. I was just saying.
I watched her out of interest and boredom as she joked with the bartender. He set a shot of whiskey on the rocks in front of her, but she didn’t toss it back like I had. I wasn’t paying much attention to their conversation until I heard something that made my ears perk up.
“… McCrady’s back,” the bartender was saying.