“I'll handle the truck. You go with Troy.” Dmitri was already pulling out his phone. “I know a guy who does discreet towing. No questions. No paperwork. He takes the truck to a shop I trust, and we figure out exactly what was done to it.”
“What about these people?” I gestured at the crowd still watching. “They saw the crash. Someone called 911.”
“Let me worry about that.” Dmitri moved toward the nearest bystander and started talking in that charming way he had that made people cooperate without realizing they were being managed.
Troy grabbed my arm. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah.” I took a step. My ribs screamed in protest. My head swam. But I stayed upright. “I need to get my things from the truck.”
“I'll get them. Just sit in the car.”
“Troy—”
“Sit. In. The. Car.” His voice left no room for argument.
I made my way to Dmitri's SUV and climbed into the passenger seat slowly because every movement hurt. My whole body felt like one giant bruise layered on top of the existing bruises.
Through the windshield I watched Troy move around my destroyed truck. He grabbed my gym bag from the back seat. My jacket from the passenger side. The first aid kit from under the seat.
Then he paused. Reached for the discreet bag sitting on the floorboard, the one from the lingerie shop.
I saw him freeze. Saw him look inside. Saw his expression shift into awareness before he grabbed it and everything else and headed back to the SUV.
He put everything in the back seat and climbed into the driver's seat. Didn't look at me.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He started the engine and pulled away from the scene while Dmitri stayed behind talking to the crowd. Convincing them the situation was handled. That no ambulance was needed. That everything was under control.
We drove in silence for two blocks. Troy's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
“Say it,” I said finally.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you're thinking so hard about that you're about to break the steering wheel.”
His hands loosened slightly. “I'm thinking about how you almost died. Again. Less than twenty-four hours after someone shot at us.”
“I'm okay.”
“You're not okay. You're bleeding and bruised, and you just crashed your truck because someone sabotaged it.” He took a sharp turn. “This is escalating, Declan. First the shooting. Now this. They're getting bolder.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He glanced at me. “Because when I got that call, when you said you crashed, I thought—” His voice broke. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
The raw fear in his voice made my chest tight.
“You didn't,” I said quietly.
“Not this time.” His jaw clenched. “But what about the next time? What if they rig the brakes differently instead of just cutting a line? What if they don't miss with the next shot?”
“Then we make sure there isn't a next time.” I reached over and put my hand on his thigh. “We find them first.”
“And until then?”
