“You might want to. Because Penelope told me plenty more than just that.”
Kyla’s eyebrow arched higher; this all felt a little too easy. “Like what?”
“Enough for Stanley to be very worried. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time he let his temper get out of hand with a woman. I heard about a little something that occurred in a motel closer to Stockton. The Terra Vista. Ring a bell?”
Stanley, to Kyla’s surprise, said nothing. The only sign he was listening was a vein in his throat that started to pulse, very fast, beneath the skin.
Ryan appeared to take this as a good sign. “The good news for Stanley is that if he gives me my stepdaughter, no one has to know about any of that. I’ll get Penelope to safety. We’ll be halfway back to Mexico City by dawn.”
Ethan said, “You realize that information could be life or death for the rest of us?”
“I’m sorry, kid, but that’s really not my problem. Y’all seem smart. Tough.” The man’s eyes drifted over the room. They lingered, just a moment, on Hunter. “I bet you’ll figure something out.”
The vein in Stanley’s throat throbbed faster.
From out in the dark, one of those terribleSHRIEKSsent adrenaline tingling on Kyla’s skin. Fernanda seemed to feel it too. In a quiet voice, she said, “Do you really believe you can simplyleavethis place?”
“I don’t see why not. I don’t see—”
What happened next only took a few seconds.
Stan Holiday started marching toward the office’s door, that veinthump-thump-thumping in his throat. The guy was over this. Beyond over it.
Kyla took a long step sideways, well out of his way, because she knew that even though Stan Holiday was a thug and a bully and an overgrown child, he also had a gun on his hip, two hundred pounds of a white man’s entitlement and a dangerously short fuse. Her father had always warned her to give a person like this a wide, wide berth.
Maybe Ryan hadn’t gotten the same lesson. Maybe he just wasn’t thinking. He stepped into Stanley’s path. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Stanley pushed the man back with his left hand.
Ryan came right back, fists up now, looking like he was ready to coldcock a man fifty pounds heavier and a good four inches taller. Kyla had to give him credit: whoever this guy was, Ryan Phan would’ve probably been a hell of a drinking buddy.
Stanley didn’t seem to think so. With his right hand, the big manraised the Desert Eagle from the holster on his hip. “Out of my fuckingway.”
And then it happened.
Stan didn’t appear to aim. He fired twice, and between the flashes of the gun’s massive barrel and the deafeningcrack-crackof the powder, Kyla didn’t realize Ryan was dead until well after his body landed on the floor.
No one moved. No one screamed. They just stared, dumbfounded, at the way this man, Ryan Phan, was suddenly missing half of his head and a decent chunk of his face. A thick coating of blood and brain matter coated the office’s front door. It plastered itself onto the narrow windows. It steamed on the cold glass.
When someone started screaming, it was Stanley. Before anyone else could even register what had happened, Stanley was running—out of the office, into the parking lot, screaming and screaming like no one was more horrified by this turn of events than Stan Holiday himself.
STANLEY
He hadn’t planned to hurt anyone. Hadn’t come to the motel, hadn’t come to the office, hadn’t started moving for the goddamndoorwanting to hurt anyone. It was Ryan Fucking Phan and his fat fucking sneer that had done that. Ryan Fucking Phan and all his fucking chatter.
You want to know the craziest part? All his life, Stanley Holiday had been a terrible shot. When he pulled the Desert Eagle from his hip, he hadn’t actually planned tohitRyan Phan: he’d just wanted to scare the little man. Warn him. Send a couple rounds whizzing past his glib fucking face to get Ryan out of his goddamn fucking way.
But tonight, for once in his life, Stanley hit his target. Twice. Ryan’s head split open, and a great hot wash of blood doused Stanley’s face, and Stanley was suddenly running—running and running and running—out the door and into the parking lot and up into his van. Stanley didn’t realize, until he buried his key in the ignition, that the person he heard screaming was himself.
He hadn’t meant to do it.He hadn’t meant to do it.
Just like he hadn’t meant to do what he’d done at that other motel back in Stockton. The Terra Vista. It had been an accident. Both times. He would swear it on his life. He—
Stanley heard a gunshot from the office. A bullet struck the van’s driver’s-side window, a few inches from Stanley’s ear, and buried itself in the reinforced plexiglass. The Honda Odyssey was tougher than it looked. It was one of Frank’s transport vehicles, designed to move difficult cargo through dangerous places. It was the same reason the van was going to keep rolling even though someone had slashed its tires earlier in the night. It was equipped with run-flat tires. They’d get him a few miles. They’d get him out of here. They’d get him at least as far as Turner, and in Turner Stanley would call Frank and figure out why the man wasn’t fuckinghere.
Because Frank was supposed to be here tonight.Frank was supposed to be here.
Another bullet struck the window, and this time the plexiglass started to crack. Stanley saw the short, muscled man with the hazel eyes was standing on the porch outside the office, a massive revolver in his hand.
