“Mustache?”
“Yes, white. The young one was clean-shaven with a cleft chin.”
“I know them,” Griffin said. “Myles and Mack Brady. They’re guardians, too.”
“Guardians? Of what?” Maeve asked.
Before he could answer, a Rolls Royce limo cut in frontof him, causing him to curse and brake.
A pale face was plastered against the back window. Her eyes were wide open; she opened her mouth and shut it, like a fish gulping out of water.
“It’s Clare!” he cried. “I’m going to rescue her. Hang on.”
He glanced at oncoming traffic and waited for an opening. Then he sped into the opposing lane, drawing alongside the limo.
“What are you doing?” Maeve shouted. “We’re going to crash.”
He turned the wheel and sideswiped the limo, trying to force it off the road and get it to stop.
The Ashton bounced off the heavier car, and Griffin fought the steering wheel as it spun. Regaining control, he barely missed a head-on crash and shot back behind the limo.
“Call the Garda,” he shouted. “Get the licenseplate number.”
“I’m trying,” Maeve said, then screamed.
Too late, Griffin noticed the limo brake. He slammed onto the brakes but couldn’t slow fast enough. The front of the convertible smashed into the limo’s long boot, before rebounding off the road into a freshly plowed field.
The last thing Griffin saw were the taillights as the limo revved its engine and disappeared intothe mists of the night.
