Chapter 7
Alice
Present day
Alice caught a shout from Carter that could have been “hold on” as he leaned the bike to one side of the van, the motor thrumming underneath them. The passenger door swung open and the bearded guy jumped out, yelling at them to stop. Carter leaned the bike even further, but the guy lunged and got a hold of Alice’s arm. Cold panic seized her chest. Without thinking, she kicked out. Her boot clipped his waist, and he flinched—only slightly, but it was enough. Carter accelerated and the guy’s hand slipped away.
Wobbling, she dove for Carter’s waist. He spun the bike right around, tipping her in the opposite direction. She screeched and scrambled back up the seat, catching him in a bear hug, flailing for the foot pegs. What was he doing? They were now facing the nearly closed garage door—shouldn’t they be heading onto the road? Again the guy closed in. “Carter!” she yelled. For half a second they just sat there, and then the bike took off, knocking her backward. She recalled that she wasn’t supposed to be clinging to him like this, but she sure as hell didn’twant to let go. He aimed toward a driveway at the side of the building, gaining speed. He shifted gears and she lurched forward, clunking her helmet into his. He was goingintothe compound? Why would he do that? She turned her head to one side but couldn’t see anything beyond the side of the building. Presumably their pursuers were climbing into the van—or just sitting there waiting for her and Carter to emerge.
Carter rounded the building and rode between two huge bundles of plastic garbage, bound with string. Warily, she eased her hands back to the sides of his waist. Not a fingernail would fit between his jacket and hers, but now that she’d crossed that boundary, she wasn’t going back. In one of the bike’s mirrors, she caught the reflection of the van. “They’re coming!” she yelled. Didn’t they have guns? If this were her novel, they’d be shooting by now.
Carter wove between stacks of recycling and scrap metal, the van sliding in and out of the mirror. It was definitely easier to predict his movements and shift her balance to suit when she was flat up against him. The handlebar scraped the corner of a concrete wall, and she squeaked. They rounded the wall and came face-to-face with a chain-link fence at the far end of the compound. Behind them, the van was coming up fast. They were cornered. The driver blasted his horn, the sound muffled in her helmet.
Instead of slowing, Carter accelerated, straight at the fence. She shrieked again—she couldn’t help it—and turned her head. He kept on going. Was he planning to bust through it? Omigod, jump it? She braced for impact—and then a tangle of jagged, wiry metal flashed past. There was a hole in the fence, and they were passing right through. They zipped over a grass shoulder and onto a street. Back in the recycling yard, the van had pulled up just short of the fence. It was way too big for the hole. It started turning—heading back to the gate, no doubt.
Carter took a series of side streets through the Montrose industrial area and pulled into a deserted driveway between two concrete buildings. As he drew to a stop, she lurched forward and her helmet cracked into his. “Sorry,” she said. He dropped the kickstand and killed the engine. From inside a nearby building came a squeal of metal being cut—or maybe that was in her head.
“You wanna get off?” he said.
She was clinging like a limpet. With shaky legs, she clambered off even less elegantly than she’d gotten on and went to undo the helmet clasp. Her gloved hands shook. Her whole head felt clammy with cold sweat.
“Here, let me.” He stepped closer, pulling off his gloves. As he lifted the helmet off, the metallic buzz rose to a screech, and she watched her reflection in his visor turn from an identical helmet to a flushed face framed by crazy hair. She was definitely not one of those women who would look sexy taking off a helmet and shaking out her shiny, untangled hair.
“You okay?” he said, removing his helmet.
She bent double, resting her gloved hands on her thighs. “That was fucking terrifying!”
“Couldn’t have done that in an Aston Martin.”
“Did you know there was another way out of the yard?”
“Never go into a situation unless you know two ways out. Nice work with the boot—quick thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking at all. It was sheer fucking panic.”
“Can’t help noticing your language has deteriorated, Ms. Thornton.”
“No fucking kidding!”
He smiled—not the wry quirk, but broadly and openly, and it was just like in the book:you felt like you’d unlocked a reward. “Catch your breath a minute. I gotta do something.”
He drew something else out of a saddlebag—another license plate and a screwdriver—and quickly switched plates.
“Now turn your jacket inside out,” he said, unzipping his.
Puzzled, she watched as his jacket turned from black to brown—it was reversible! She followed suit with hers.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now we look like a tragic touring couple.”
“Won’t the plate be picked up as fake?”
“It’s not fake. It’s registered, just not to this bike. I have a few of them.”
“As you do.”
“I do freelance surveillance for a few PIs in D.C. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
D.C.? All this time, her book boyfriend was living, like, a couple of hours away? Freelance surveillance made sense for a former spy, though it sounded like a waste of his other skills. And there she went again, assuming she knew him.
