Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(46)

“I wouldn’t exactly call our last few outings makeupworthy,” she said. “But you couldn’t use mine anyways. I’m browner than you. Thank God.”

He headed back to the counter and laid the concealer and chips on top of the energy bars.

The woman gave a smile. “Picking up some makeup for the missus?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She handed him the plastic bag.

Joey was waiting outside, her arms crossed, staring through a patch of skinny trees down the long ramp to the freeway.

“What?” Evan asked.

She flicked her chin.

A hunter-green 4Runner exited the freeway and started up the slope toward the service plaza.





30

Do Your Business

Evan pulled Joey around the side of the building. They stood on the browning grass beneath the window of the men’s room, peering around the corner at the travel plaza’s entrance. A good vantage.

“That truck,” she said. “Kept time with us for at least forty miles.”

He thought of her bobbing in her seat, singing along to the radio. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

“That’s my superpower.”

“What?”

“Being underestimated.”

The men’s-room window above them was cracked open, emitting the pungent scent of urinal cakes. Through the gap they heard someone whistle, spit, and unzip. Evan set the shopping bag on the ground.

They waited.

The 4Runner finally came into view, cresting the rise.

It crept along the line of parked vehicles, slowing as it passed the Civic. The driver eased forward, closer to the pumps, and stopped with the grille pointed at the on-ramp below.

“Hmm,” Joey said.

Evan leaned closer to the building’s edge, Joey’s hair brushing his neck. They were thirty or so yards away from the 4Runner.

Leaving the truck running, the driver climbed out, scratching at the scraggly blond tufts of his beard. Cowboy boots clicking on the asphalt, he walked back to the Civic, approaching it from behind. As he neared, he untucked his shirt. His hand reached back toward his kidney, sliding under the fabric. He hooked the grip of a handgun, slid it partway out of the waistband.

It looked like a big-bore semiauto, maybe a Desert Eagle.

Not a law-enforcement gun.

The man approached cautiously, peering through the windows, checking that the car was empty. Then he let his shirt fall back over the gun and entered the travel plaza.

“He didn’t see us,” Evan said. “Not directly, not from behind us on the freeway. At best he could tell that we were a man and a young woman. He’s trying to confirm ID.”

“So what do we do?”

“You don’t do anything.”

“I could handle that guy.”

“He’s bigger than you,” Evan said. “Stronger, too.”

In the bathroom a toilet flushed, the rush of water amplified in the cinder-block walls. A moment later they heard the creak of hinges and then the hiss of the hydraulic door opener. A sunburned man waddled into sight around the corner and headed off toward his car.

Joey snapped her gum. “I could handle him,” she said again.

“We’re not gonna find out,” Evan said. “Stay here.”

“You’re going into the plaza?”

“Too many civilians. We’ll let him come to us. He’ll check the bathrooms next.”

Sure enough, the driver emerged from the plaza and started their way. They pulled back from the corner.

Evan moved his hand toward his holster. “Don’t want to use the gun,” he whispered. “No suppressor. But if I have to—”

She completed the thought. “I’ll have the car ready.”

A crunch of footsteps sounded behind them. Was there a second man? Evan put his shoulders to the cinder block, flattening Joey next to him, and switched his focus to the rear of the building.

A Pomeranian bobbed into view, straining a metal-link dog leash. It sniffed the grass, its rhinestone-studded collar winking.

Evan came off the wall.

The little dog pulled at its chain, producing an older woman clad in an aquamarine velour sweatsuit. She frowned down at the dog. “Do your business, Cinnamon!” She looked up and saw Evan. “Oh, thank God. Excuse me. Can you watch Cinnamon for me just for a second? I have to use the ladies’ room.”

Evan could hear the driver’s boots now, tapping the front walkway behind him, growing louder. “I can’t. Not now.”

Creak of hinges. Hiss of hydraulic door opener.

The woman said, “Maybe your daughter, then?”

Evan turned around.

Joey was gone.

He tapped his holster through his shirt.

Empty.

He hissed, “Joey!” and leaned around the front corner.

He caught only a flicker of brown-black hair disappearing through the men’s-room door as the hydraulic opener eased it shut.

The woman was still talking. “Teenagers,” she said.

Evan stood at the corner, torn. If he shouted Joey’s name, he’d give her away. If he barreled in after her, he could alert the driver and get her killed. As it stood, she had Evan’s gun and the element of surprise.

On point, he strained to listen, ready to charge.