"On it."
Claudio brakes. Hard. My seatbelt locks and the gun slides off my lap and I grab it before it hits the floor. The car skids sideways on the county road and comes to a stop perpendicular to both approaching vehicles, the truck from behind and the sedan from ahead.
"Stay in the car," he says. "Do not get out of this car."
He's out before I can respond. The door opens and he moves and I watch through the windshield as the man I've been sleeping with becomes someone else entirely.
The sedan arrives first. It skids to a stop thirty feet away and two men get out, weapons up, moving in a two-man formation that speaks of training and coordination. Claudio is already behind our car, using the engine block as cover. I hear two shots. Suppressed. One of the men from the sedan drops. The other dives behind his open door.
The truck arrives. Brakes hard. The driver and the not-sleeping man pile out, and now it's three on one, with Claudio behind our car and me inside it gripping a gun I've never fired.
I hear gunfire. Multiple weapons. The car shakes as rounds punch into the trunk. I duck below the window line, my cheek against the seat, the pistol in both hands, my breath coming fast and shallow, and I count. Not exits. Shots.
Three from Claudio. Two from the sedan. A burst from the truck that stitches across the asphalt and sparks off the rear bumper. Glass shatters above me. The rear window. Cubes of safety glass rain down on my head and shoulders and I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath.
A scream. Short. Cut off. Then another suppressed shot.
Silence.
Then a third shot. Then nothing.
I count to five. My heart is in my ears. My hands are white on the gun. The car smells like gunpowder and cold air from the shattered window.
"Charlotte."
His voice. Close. Outside the passenger door. Panicked.
He’s panicked over me.
"It's clear."
I sit up. Glass falls from my hair, my shoulders. The county road is quiet. The truck is stopped at an angle, both doors open. The sedan is thirty feet away, driver's door ajar. I don't look at the ground around the vehicles. I don't look at the shapes lying on the asphalt. I look at Claudio.
He's standing beside the car. Gun in hand, muzzle down. There's blood on his forearm. Not his. Splatter. His face is blank, wiped clean of everything except the focus that turns him from a man into a machine.
"Are you hurt?" he asks.
"No."
"Can you move?"
"Yes."
"Then move. We need a new car."
I get out. My legs shake. I lock my knees and walk around the back of the car, stepping over glass, not looking down, not looking at the shapes on the road. Claudio is already at the sedan, checking the driver's body for keys. He finds them. Pops the trunk. Transfers our bags in forty-five seconds.
"How did they find us?" I ask. My voice sounds far away.
"I don't know." His jaw is tight. The muscle rolls. "But they knew our route. They knew which exit we'd take.”
"Salvatore."
"Salvatore doesn't know our route. I didn't tell anyone our route."
We look at each other. The county road is empty. The wind pushes dead grass flat. The shapes on the asphalt are very still.
"Someone's tracking us," I say. "Not following. Tracking. A device, a phone, something."
