Babe, I’m coming.
Hopefully this vehicle can handle its new driver. The Russian mob’s not going to know what hit them.
I shift into drive, then screech to a stop.
Brody races to meet me. He pulls a Glock 19 from behind his back and stuffs the weapon into my hands. “Don’t make me regret this.”
I don’t bother with an answer.
I won’t miss.
Chapter 39
Maeve
My lip is cracked, my left eye swelling, and this bumpy ride doesn’t help matters.
The Russian didn’t kill me, but he knocked me on my ass with the butt of the gun, which hurt like hell. I don’t recommend it.
Handcuffs secure me in place on the floor of a blacked-out van. Where there would usually be seats, the floor is bare, leaving the bar primed to hold hostages like me.
I can’t see anything from down here.
But LA was my playground.
I rode my bike on these streets, put in about ten thousand miles training for cross-country along them, and learned how to drive in dismal LA traffic.
I’ve gone up the 101 to go camping and hike the El Camino Real. I’ve taken the 10 to Vegas more times than I can count. Just recently, in fact, for Lenora’s birthday.
Big Bear, Joshua Tree, Tijuana… I don’t need a smart phone to navigate SoCal, or most of the Southern United States. And I’m almost always the one driving, if not my 850i, then some other vintage vehicle with a manual transmission.
I retract what I said about my father never showing me any affection. He taught all his kids how to drive a stick.
Every day since, I’ve fallen a little more in love with driving.
Thanks to my father—probably the only time I’ll ever utter those words—I know these streets.
I know the Russian was on the 10 East for about twenty minutes before making a right. But we weren’t cruising over twenty miles an hour for most of the ride. It’s nevernotrush hour around here. And he didn’t exit onto a ramp that brought us to another freeway.
We’re navigating side streets. Maybe Alameda, or possibly Santa Fe Avenue. Heading due south to Vernon, perhaps. Lots of industry there.
I participated in a drag race in that area once that featured a bunch of sense-challenged teenagers and the shortest race in the history of the sport. That was the night I had sex in a jacked-up Mustang.
Nice guy, though the attraction was more about the car. The relationship never went anywhere, but I still have no regrets.
I figure this Russian asshole is probably taking me to Vernon. The perfect locale for nefarious mob business due to the density and many deserted buildings. While I don’t have a phone, I at least know where I am, where we’re going. And when we stop, I’ll craft an escape plan.
He accelerates into a fast turn. I hit my head on the bar I’m cuffed to, my nose pressing into the filthy floor.
I can’t imagine how horrible Kellin must feel. I only got punched once.
Well, struck with the butt of a gun. But still. Every inch of Kellin must be in a world of pain.
The van slows as the tires go over a bump. Not a speed bump, but the thin metal track of a gate.
As soon as the Russian puts the van in park, he’s out of the vehicle. Seconds later, he opens the door and grabs a foot to yank me out.
“The cuffs!” Is this guy for real?
