What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(18)

Horst climbed back in. “Whew! I feel better. You need to go?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You’ve got the bladder of a camel.”

“You’re not the first guy to notice.” What was it with some men that even urination was a contest? “Ready?”

“Let’s go.” He didn’t fasten his seat belt. He wanted to be ready for action.

They reached the junction of Highway 101 and Kellen turned onto the Olympic Mountains.

“You seem to know where you’re going.” He sounded annoyed.

“You showed me the map.”

“If you remember so good, how come you took the wrong road back there?”

“There aren’t very many roads out here, so a little diversion in case we’re being followed is a good idea.” She gave him time to digest that, then, “How much do you think that head is worth on the illegal market?”

“I don’t know.” His hand inched toward his pistol. “Maybe not so much.”

“Enough to kill for.”

“The courier could have died by accident.”

Earlier, he had pretended not to know about the courier or his death. Horst had just officially become one of the bad guys. In a calm voice meant to soothe and explain, she said, “The trouble with trouble is, if you get mercenaries involved, and they kill one person, they’re not going to stop. You were in the Army. You know what mercenaries are like. They’ll keep coming. They’ll betray the people who work for them to keep an extra dollar.” She felt like she had to give him warning before this went any further.

“What do you know about it?”

“I’ve got experience. Why do you think I got called on this job?”

He stared as if he couldn’t decide whether to believe her or not.

She added, “No honor among thieves and all that.”

For one moment, his hand stopped inching. But he’d already proved he wasn’t the brightest guy, and now he moved more quickly, as if he wanted to handle the matter before she talked him out of it.

He pulled his pistol.

She heard him release the safety.

He turned toward her, pistol leveled at her, arm outstretched to grab the wheel.

She slammed hard on the brakes.

His head thumped the windshield hard enough to send a spiderweb of cracks across the safety glass. The pistol flew out of his hand. Didn’t go off. Thank God.

She goosed the van.

He slapped back into the seat hard enough (she hoped) for whiplash. But no—he recovered fast, proving he had great reflexes and not much in the cranium. He lunged at her.

She leveled her pistol and shot him in the chest.

The impact drove him against the passenger-side door. He looked surprised—but not dead.

Figured. He was a professional. He wore body armor.

He gasped in agony. Taking a shot from that close, he probably had a couple of broken ribs.

Good.

She slammed on the brakes again, released her seat belt and kicked him against the passenger side, a good solid blow to the chest, then leaned past him, opened the door and shoved him on to the road.

She drove off, door swinging, moving as fast as she could along the narrow rutted road. Dust boiled in the still-open door, and she watched the rearview mirror for a cloud created by a following vehicle. She saw nothing.

This road headed toward a trailhead that led to Lake Rannoch and the falls. Pure wilderness, and no chance of help.

She turned onto President Roosevelt Road. If the map was right, President Roosevelt Road would wind up and down and around the mountains, cross into the Olympic National Forest and eventually end in a paid parking area. Hikers and mountain bikers took off from there on their jaunts to lakes and peaks, and if she was lucky, there would be a national park ranger around. The rangers were the law enforcement up here, and she needed help.

If she was unlucky, there would be an unmanned payment box.

In the last year, luck had been scarce, and victories hard-fought and won with a lot of pain.

She drove unhurriedly, making sure she raised no betraying dust.

What with crazy Roderick on the roof sending a tile down to pierce her hip and then telling her, “Run, bitch!”... Well, no one could call the last month lucky. She’d played enough cards in the Army to know when luck had deserted you, you should throw it in and walk away. She intended to do just that...but!

She’d taken this job in good faith. She couldn’t abandon the head. At best, it would disappear into a private collection, never to be seen again. At worst, it would be sold to finance terrorist operations around the world.

Run, bitch.

When she had gone several miles and seen the National Forest sign, she came to a halt and allowed herself one despairing moment with her head on the steering wheel.

She was in trouble. She needed help, and she didn’t know who to call. Max? Nils? Birdie and her Army buddies? None of them would get here fast enough to help her. The park rangers? Yes, maybe, but there was money behind this operation and a uniform would be easy to rent and wear.

She had to help herself and save that head, and she didn’t know how her situation could get any more dire.

She groped for her phone to text Birdie, give her a heads-up that she needed help, ask her to call Max, give her the general route she was traveling.

Something rustled behind her.