I couldn’t let him do it.
“Have dinner with me,” I asked. “At my house. You can help me explain to my mother and grandmother what happened to my work vehicle.”
A hint of a grin touched his lips. His eyes lit up. “Do you think your mother might try to shoot me?”
“Possibly.”
“Then absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”
And he would be the politest dragon ever. Tail tucked in, fangs hidden, and talons carefully folded on his lap. I had just invited Mad Rogan to have dinner. Again. My poor mom.
Rogan’s phone chimed. He glanced at it and swore.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Luanne’s sister just arrived in Houston. I have to meet her.”
I tried to sort out the tangled mess of emotions. Was I relieved or disappointed? I wasn’t sure. “Rain check?”
“What time is dinner?”
“Usually around five thirty, six.”
“I can make it.”
I glanced at my phone. It was three fifteen. He could reasonably make it.
“Pull over,” Rogan said.
Troy took an exit and pulled into a gas station.
“I’ll be there,” Rogan promised.
“I’d like that.” I meant it.
He opened the door, stepped out, and bent down. “Take Ms. Baylor wherever she wants to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rogan grinned at me and shut the door.
Troy pulled away. “Where to, Ms. Baylor?”
“Nevada. Would you mind making a small detour for me to pick up some takeout?”
“Your wish is my command,” Troy said.
Right. I dialed Takara’s number. My sisters would get their sushi after all.
Chapter 5
The Katy Freeway slid by outside the passenger window, the traffic unusually light, the five lanes of smooth pavement channeling a handful of cars forward. In an hour, when the workday rolled to a close, traffic would be murder. The sky, torn between rain and overcast drudgery all day, had finally decided on rain. Water poured from above as if some giant had decided to hold a showerhead above the city.
I petted the plastic bag on the back seat next to me. I had spent way too much money on sushi and I didn’t care. After all of the nightmarish things I had seen today, I wanted to buy my sisters all the sushi in the world. I was so grateful they were alive I might even hug them when I got home. Of course, they’d freak out and claim I needed to have my head examined.
Troy’s reflection in the rearview mirror frowned. “Are you buckled?”
“Yes. Why?”
“A Toyota 4Runner is hanging out behind us. He was speeding and weaving through the lanes until he settled on our ass. I’m going five miles under the speed limit, the left lane is wide open, and he isn’t passing.”
I pulled my Glock out and glanced behind us through the tinted back window. The black 4Runner stayed about three car lengths back. A driver and a passenger, both dim, dark silhouettes in the rain. I snapped a picture of the license with my phone. Not great, but once we uploaded it and ran it through some filters, we should be able to read it.
“I’ve got the rear and front cameras recording,” Troy said.
Nice. That’s the thing I always liked about Rogan and didn’t mind admitting: he was thorough and he thought ahead. “The exit to Sam Houston Parkway is coming up.”
“Yep.” Troy checked his rearview mirror again. “Let’s see if he follows.”
The sign announcing the exit flashed by. An exit-only lane peeled off from our lane, running parallel to the main road. A concrete barrier loomed ahead, where our lane split: the left side kept going with Katy, the right joined the exit lane and veered toward a high overpass.
The barrier sped straight at us.
Troy took a sharp right onto the exit and stepped on the gas. The Range Rover flew down the lane. The 4Runner behind us picked up speed. We hurtled up the curving overpass, the ground far below.
A black Suburban drew even with us in the left lane. A man in the front passenger window looked at me, his face smudged behind the rain-splattered window. Maybe midthirties, blond hair brushed back. The man leaned closer to the glass and smiled. The Suburban shot past us. The wet pavement behind the large vehicle turned white with frost. Ice sheathed the road.
The Range Rover slid. My stomach jerked left, then right, trying to escape my body. I grabbed the seat in front of me. We fishtailed down the overpass, Troy’s face a white mask in the rearview mirror. My heart hammered in panic. The Range Rover veered into the concrete outer rail. A hideous metal screech ripped through the cabin. A hundred feet below us a parking lot yawned.
We were going to die.
Troy wrestled the wheel back. The Range Rover skimmed the icy road like a pinball shot out of the machine, cleared the apex of the curve, and sped down the overpass. Ahead, the Sam Houston Parkway stretched, the entire right lane glistening with ice. We were going too fast, but if Troy slammed on the brakes, we’d skid and die. The Range Rover slid to the left, then to the right. Troy was pumping the brakes gently, trying to shed all of that speed.
A semi roared next to us in the left lane, blocking us in. We fishtailed down the lane, caught between the semi and the concrete rail.
The familiar 4Runner slid behind the semi. The passenger window rolled down.
Here’s hoping Rogan’s money bought us enough armor.
“Gun!” I warned.
Bullets sprayed the road behind the car. Something hissed—they’d hit our tires. The rubber inserts meant we’d keep going, but steering had just gotten extra complicated.
The Range Rover slid again, skidding on the ice. Troy caught the skid, steering into it.
They hadn’t attacked us while Rogan was in the car. They weren’t ready for that confrontation, which meant even now they would want to keep their identity a secret. If I didn’t want an attack to lead back to me, I’d use stolen cars, and if the 4Runner chasing us was stolen, it had no armor.
I tried the window. Locked.
“Lower the window.”
“Can’t do that. Stay buckled.”
“Troy!”
“I lower that window and crash, you’ll fly through the windshield,” he growled.
Getting off the highway was our only chance. “If you don’t roll down the window, they’ll keep shooting us. Even if the car shields us, the bullets will ricochet. There are innocent people on this road. Open the window!”
The window slid down. I unbuckled, took aim at the 4Runner, and fired five shots in a tight pattern. The windshield fractured. The 4Runner dropped back. The semi slid between the 4Runner and us, blocking the shot.
Three rounds left.
Ahead the exit lane for Hammerly Boulevard peeled off the highway.
The semi roared, speeding up. Troy stood on the gas, but it was too late. I locked my seat belt and thrust the gun down to the right, so I wouldn’t shoot myself or Troy.
The semi rammed us. The Range Rover jumped forward, slid, hurtling out of control, the truck thundering past us as it veered back into the left lane. We smashed into something solid. The impact punched me. The gun slipped through my fingers. The seat belt burned my shoulder and chest, knocking the wind out of me.
I opened my eyes. The deflated sacks of the front airbags hung from the dash. Troy lay limp in his seat. The impact had bent Troy’s door in, forcing his seat all the way back and pinning my knees in place. My Glock was somewhere in the car, probably on the floor by the passenger seat on my right, and I had no way to reach it. Great.
“Troy?”
He didn’t respond.
I put my hand on his neck and felt the fluttering of a pulse. Even; didn’t seem weak, although I wasn’t a doctor. I held my hand close to his nose. Breathing. Okay. Where the hell was that semi?
I tried to turn to look behind me and managed a half glance over my shoulder. The semi was gone.
The 4Runner had stopped ahead of us on the tollway in the right lane, its front toward us, oblivious to traffic that had to flow around it. The driver door swung open. A leg emerged below the door. It ended in a hoof.
A wave of dread rolled over me, a sickly overwhelming fear. My heart raced. Cold sweat broke out all over my body. The hair on my arms stood up. I had to get out. I had to get out now.