“Sylvie—”
“Fine.” She found her piece and opened the door, then slammed it behind her and faced the oncoming Charger, gun pointed at the ground but ready.
“Jesus Christ.” Alex opened his door. The car was about a quarter mile away. They had roughly ten seconds before impact when he came around the side and grabbed her.
“Syl, we have to—”
“Let go! I know what I’m doing.”
She spread her feet and pointed the gun at the Charger.
As Alex wrapped his arm around her, ready to cart her off in a fireman’s carry, the Charger hit its brakes and slowed, fishtailing down the hill. It stopped six feet away from them. Sylvie switched her aim from the driver—a woman who’d put her hands up—to the male passenger.
Jerold Glass aimed his gun back at Sylvie.
Alex pulled his Sig and charged Glass as a cruiser crested the hill, sirens blaring.
“Don’t shoot me!” The driver yelled.
“Police! Get out of the car!” Sylvie shouted.
The driver tried to open her door, but Glass grabbed the back of her shirt with one hand and pulled her toward him. Alex continued to point his Sig at Glass and watched as he considered his options. He saw the hesitation as Glass wondered if his driver would make a good hostage. The idiot turned the gun toward the woman.
The police cruiser stopped behind the Charger and two officers got out. Alex recognized the driver—Frank Morris. The man stared at Sylvie like she was a ghost.
Glass spotted the cops in the rearview and Alex braced for the worst. Then Glass did something totally unexpected—he set the gun on the dashboard and held his hands up.
“Police! Hands where we can see them! Drop your weapons!” Frank’s partner shouted as they both ran toward the driver’s side. Sylvie dashed toward the passenger’s side and Alex followed.
“Shit, Sylvie,” Frank said. “The fuck you doing here?”
She ignored his question. “Glass is over here. Gun’s on the dash.”
Alex fought the instinct to haul Glass out of the car and curb stomp him for pointing a gun at Sylvie. But all he needed was the trouble it would get both of them in, so he stepped back and let Frank’s partner come around to his side and do it for him. He read the officer’s name tag—Tom Hicks. Alex expected Hicks to yank the red-faced man out and push him into the hood while reading him his Miranda rights, but instead he calmly asked Glass to get out of the car while he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“The fuck?” Glass asked the officer while looking at Sylvie, who met his eyes with silence.
Sylvie calmly walked around to the driver’s side.
Glass started in on his driver. “You stupid bitch! I told you not to take this road,” he shouted at the woman, who was crying hysterically at this point. She looked about twenty years old—young enough to be his daughter, but there was no family resemblance.DisgustingAlex thought. But as much as he was yelling, Glass was putting up no resistance to Hicks.
Sylvie had tucked her gun away and was trying to talk the girl down while Frank recited Miranda. Alex took a deep breath, pushing down his frustration with Sylvie, and approached her.
“You can get a lawyer,” Sylvie was saying. “Jerald’s going to throw you under the bus, you know. You don’t have to answer anything without an attorney present.”
Frank continued his speech while eying Sylvie like she was a fly buzzing around his head that he wanted to smack.
“Gonna have to ask you to step off, Officer Madden. We’ve got this.”
“Just helping out.” Sylvie eyed Frank. “You’ve been scarce.”
“Where’s your driver’s license?” Frank asked the woman while Glass continued to aim a profound stream of obscenities toward his child-girlfriend.
The young woman sniffled. “It’s in my purse on the front seat.”
Sylvie started for it when Hicks warned, “Don’t touch a damn thing or I’ll have to report you for interfering, Sylvie.”
Sylvie stared at him incredulously. “Come on, Tom, I was just helping out here.”
