Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(50)

“We good?” I ask.

Her lips move without sound. She’s getting the message, and even if it feels like knives inside me, that’s the important thing.

She gets out a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Sometimes you have to make a gun real to a person, and it’s for her own good, because I don’t want her to run. She’d finger Stone and maybe even Nate, and the governor would be their problem too. They’d be lucky to get twenty-five to life.

So I just have to make sure she doesn’t run, simple as that.

I go around to the driver’s side and fire up the engine. I pull out, put it in park, jump out to close the garage door, and we’re off. I breathe easier once we’ve cleared Nate’s driveway, and even more when we’re on a two-lane highway without anything to link us up. I’m guessing the vehicle is stolen, maybe by another patient of Nate’s, but I’ll take my chances on the interstate all the same.

“You should’ve just killed me,” she says when we’re ten minutes out from Nate’s. Her voice sounds hollow. “It would’ve been better.”

My insides twist up because of how well I recognize that tone. Fuck. “Don’t be stupid. You never want to be dead instead of living.”

She’s sitting as far away from me as she can. Beyond crying. “It would be better.”

“Stop it,” I say through gritted teeth. I want clever Ms. Winslow back. The fighter, the woman who tricked me into telling more than I ever meant to. The woman who understands things other people can’t.

I want her not to feel like this. And not to be the one who made her cry. All because she got f*cked? “You need to reach the hell down inside yourself and find that little corner in there where you know things are okay. That part of you nobody can take away.”

“Not even you?” Her voice is quiet.

Not even me, I want to say. But my attention is snagged by the four-way stop in the distance. There’s a car sitting up there, right at the stop sign, and no other cars are in sight. It could be somebody texting or looking at a map. Somebody harmless.

Or somebody watching. Waiting.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she mumbles.

“Don’t bullshit me. You’re okay.” If nothing else, she’s talking with me. Communicating. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about. They were liable to swallow a razor blade when you weren’t looking.

God, the bleeding. The bleeding never stopped. I push the memories back where they belong.

She glares at me. “Is this you giving me advice on how to survive a guy like you? Because that’s a little f*cked up, even for you.”

I’m glad to see the bite. Even directed at me, I’m glad to see it.

The car’s still there. I’m too far away to see how many people are inside, or even if the windows are shaded. I could do a U-turn and get going the other way, see if they follow. But that’s like waving a red flag if it’s the governor’s guys. I grab the ball cap and stuff it over my head. “Get down.”

She looks around, sees only the sunny blue skies and fields and the blue sedan in the distance.

I grab her neck and push her down. They don’t know this vehicle. A lot of guys ride around in ball caps. I slow at the stop. Shaded windows. Shit. I wait, then go.

The shiny blue car follows. It still could be nothing. Or it could be that they suspect, and they’re calling their friends.

I knew the FBI could track me, and I trusted my evasion skills enough to get away. Hell, they had always worked before. Only once had I ever been caught, and that was because of the governor.

The governor, whose guys are following me now. It’s got to be them. This is bad.

My hands tighten on the wheel. “If the shit hits the fan, baby, you run like hell, okay?”

“What?” She sounds incredulous.

It makes me smile, just a little. She thinks I’m the biggest and the baddest guy here, which is kind of sweet. But she’s wrong. “If something goes down, you run. And don’t trust anybody in a big shiny car or SUV. Don’t trust these small-town badges either. Get back to the city. Call the FBI. Tell them you were taken hostage, that you got free. They’ll come get you.”

“What’s going on?”

“I told you, baby. Trouble.”

Her eyes flicker with disbelief, and I know there’s some irony there. I’m trouble. But I don’t want her going down with me. It’s important. She’s important.

The car is still back there, a little close for comfort. I jerk the wheel and pull over, slam onto the gravel and stop. The car passes me, then skids to a stop in the middle of the street up ahead.

So they were following me. Game on.

I do a U-turn and scream down the road the other way. The Suburban has shit for pickup, and the blue car is on me.

Abby pops her head up, peeking over the seat, right as a shot blasts out.

“Jesus!” I swerve the car to throw them off.

She’s back down, huddling in the seat. I run my hand over her hair to reassure myself. They didn’t hit us, didn’t hit her, but now I’m pissed. Nobody shoots at Abby.

There’s another shot, and my tire blows out. And then another and something breaks; the steering’s out. I slam on the brakes and go into a spin. I’m reaching out and grabbing her to keep her safe, keep her from smashing her head, trying to control this piece-of-shit ride. There’s a bone-shattering jolt, and everything comes to a stop. The world comes to a stop.