Baddest Bad Boys(35)

He stared after her morosely. Every guy in the place ogled the woman’s ass, showcased in tight jeans. He turned, stared at the liquor bottles on the wall. Considered that option. Dismissed it. No point in it.

Everything about that fake, snotty blonde just served as a poignant foil for everything that was so intensely special about Robin. She was so natural. Sincere and direct and real. He’d never been with a woman so sweet and funny. Who made him feel so alive. Switched on.

And he never would again.

The realization electrified him, and a wave of cold accompanied it. A premonition of loss, a neck-prickling shudder of naked fear.

Shit. Here he went, with the random freakouts and anxiety attacks again. He needed to eat a pill, maybe. Just chill the f*ck out.

He slid off the stool, and his eyes fell on the heap of eggshells the blonde had left on the bar. Blue. Delicate, robin’s-egg blue—

Robin’s…egg…oh. Holy. Fuck. Fear slammed into him like a hollowpoint bullet. He launched off the bar stool and bolted.

Robin stumbled over the curb, dug for a tissue, honked into it.

She wiped her eyes, and looked for Kelly. It seemed too good to be true that this lady would step out of the woodwork and fix her car.

“My van’s parked around to the side,” said Kelly’s musical voice.

The girl’s smile was so bright. As if fiddling with some stranger’s car late at night in a convenience store parking lot was just the coolest thing ever. Then again. Maybe Kelly was just an extremely nice person, and she, Robin, needed a swift attitude adjustment, right in the heinie.

“Um, yeah,” she said. “Are you sure you want to bother with this? I mean, I can just get a room, or—”

“No bother! Just help carry my chest and it’ll be no problem!”

Robin followed. It occurred to her to ask Kelly to park her van by the car, but the suggestion felt snotty and ungrateful, so she let it go.

The parking lot on the side was deserted. Kelly made for a van that was parked there, chattering all the while. The woman wrenched open the side of the van and climbed nimbly into the dark interior.

Robin peered in. It looked like the van was rigged with a bunch of electronic equipment. “What is this stuff? Is this a surveillance van?”

“It’s for my boyfriend’s work,” Kelly explained. “He’s in law enforcement. You get ready to grab the handle on the box, OK?”

“You want me to do it? You shouldn’t strain your shoulder at all.”

“It’s fine. Just reach over and grab that side, and pull…”

“Sure.” Robin reached for the box, saw Kelly’s foot take a swift step forward. She looked up, saw the woman’s wild, grinning grimace.

Crazy flashed through her mind, and the club whipped down—

Crack, white sparks, disbelief. A long, sinking fall. Then nothing.

Jon skidded to a stop by Robin’s car and looked frantically around. Christ, where was she? It had only been a couple of minutes!

Headlights switched to the side of the store. A van peeled towards the exit. He barely made out the blonde behind the wheel. She saw him.

Tires squealed. He bolted after it, memorizing the plates. The laws of physics decreed that he’d never catch up, but still he pounded along, screaming. He got his big break when the van jerked to a stop to avoid plowing into a logging truck. A final spurt of adrenaline fueled his leap.

He grabbed the luggage rack, groped one-handed for the door handle. Locked. The van weaved, braked, swerved, trying to buck him off. He swung and flopped. Groped for his gun, clawing it out of the shoulder holster. He smashed the window. Blood spattered, flew. A gunshot blasted. Fuck. The crazy bitch was shooting at him.

She was screaming. He hung grimly on, and braced his legs as best he could against the vehicle. “Pull over or I’ll shoot!”

“Filthy pig!” she shrieked. “Pig! Pig!”

She yanked the wheel around. They careened off the highway, over the shoulder, juddering down the long, sloping embankment. A wall of brush approached. Terribly fast, slow motion, sure death.

They hit. He flew, smashed into dark and scrub and thorn.

A thread of grim purpose kept him tethered to himself. He clawed his way to consciousness, blinked back the blood in his eyes. Struggled towards air, space. Branches scratched, bit. Light filtered down from the streetlight at the highway junction, just enough to assess the scene.

The van was tipped halfway over. A clump of flexible young firs had held it up. Windshield shattered. The impact had knocked his gun from his hand. He dragged himself towards the van. His leg buckled.

He held the side of the van for balance, leaving a wavering streak of blood on its surface. The side door was unlocked, but the crash had warped it. He wrestled it open. Couldn’t make out anything in the dark.

An icy blade of self-doubt sliced deep as the scenario played out: Detective Jon Amendola, charged with fatally attacking an innocent blond bimbette in a parking lot. What a crowning end to his career.

He dug out his car keys, shone the penlight on the keychain inside, and saw Robin crumpled against the back corner of the van.

His heart practically stopped. Her face was streaked with blood. She was cuffed and shackled. Scattered around was a hoard of cutting instruments. Scalpels, picks, cleavers, scissors, picks and tongs.

He climbed in. The van shook, threatening to tip. He crept over to her. Her pulse was strong. He gathered her up as if she were made of blown glass, scooted on lacerated knees over the traveling torture kit, and clambered out the door. The van bounced, swayed.