The man frowns as he shouts again, something that sounds likeOR ELSE I’LL SHOOT YOU. Even inaudible, the words send chills down my neck.
And then, with a grunt of effort, Grant does something incredibly stupid and incredibly well timed: he flings the gun out the window. The man ducks to dodge it, swerving away in the process and leaving just enough room for me to cut back over to the travel lane.
We’re flying toward the exit and I can hardly believe it. We’re actually going to make it out of here, or at least off this godforsaken highway. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a rush like this before.
Then there’s another loudbang. Our car jerks and veers toward the shoulder, out of my control.
“What the—”
“They blew the tire,” Grant grits out, his hand braced against the ceiling.
The car skids off the highway. Grant yells like he’s on a roller coaster to hell as we spin wildly along the curve of the off-ramp. I careen onto the main road and just barely manage to take the first right, which turns out to be … a fenced-in apartment building parking lot. A complete dead end.
There’s a screech as the SUV pulls in behind us, caging us in.
The silence in the car is thick. Neither of us moves.
“What part of the book would you call this?” I ask Grant in a low voice.
“The part where we’re fucked,” he says.
Car doors slam behind us, and I turn to see the man and the woman walking slowly in our direction. For deeply suspicious characters, they’re shockingly casual. Funky, even. He’s wearing a tailored blazer over a teal zebra-print shirt, unbuttoned at the top, while she has pink hair and matching neon combat boots.
With a bracing breath, I reach for the door handle.
“What are you doing?” Grant hisses. “You’re not supposed to get out of the car!”
“That’s for traffic stops. Pretty sure there are no rules for fictional villain confrontations.”
“But—”
“I am not dying in a wannabe murderer’s crappy car,” I say. “Stay here if you want.” He thinks about this for a few seconds, looking faintly green, then tucks one hand inside his blazer and reaches for the door with the other. “What areyoudoing?”
“Maybe they’ll think I have another gun,” he says in a harsh whisper.
We open our doors at the same time and meet around the back of the car.
“Don’t come any closer,” Grant calls shakily to the man andwoman. They amble to a stop, and only then do I realize the man’s hands are empty. He holds his palms out in a show of goodwill and then flares out his jacket, revealing that his gun—and its twin—are holstered, one at each hip. Something about him rings a bell to me.
“Sorry about the damage to your car,” he calls to us. Everything about him, from his British drawl to his relaxed stance, drips nonchalance. “Just wanted to get your attention.”
“We won’t hurt you, promise,” assures the woman, her own London accent bright and chipper.
I suddenly feel a lot more empathetic about Grant’s skepticism of me last night. “Car hornsget people’s attention,” I snap. “It seemed more like you were trying to kill us.”
The man chuckles, gesturing to his guns. “What, with these? These are just Higgins and Wiggins. They’re not for killing. They’re only for emergencies and drama.”
“Really? Is that why you yelledPull over or I’ll shoot you?”
“Also literally shot at us several times,” Grant points out.
“No, no,” says the man, sounding borderline impatient. “I saidI’m not going to shoot you. I wasn’t really aiming for you, just wanted to stop you getting away. And now I’m especially glad I have.”
He lifts his sunglasses up to rest on his head and gestures to the woman beside him. “This is Lissa Rhea, my assistant.” She beams at us and waves. The man plants his fists on his hips, striking an almost comically arrogant pose. “And you can call me Burns.”
“You can call him Lesley,” Lissa tells us, then flashes him acut the bullshitlook. “You can’t pull off Burns, babes.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’mLesley. Lesley Burns.DetectiveLesley Burns.”
