Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(87)

Mahoney crouched beside the back bumper, unscrewing the license plate. Brooke’s heart drummed in her chest as she watched his brisk movements. The window was closing on her chance to get them out of this.

She looked up at the pistol still pointed at her. At the beast of a man holding it. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. And he held that weapon like he knew how to use it.

Even armed, Brooke probably wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

Brooke rested her hands on her knees. Her wrists were bound together with a zip tie, and she could no longer feel her fingers. She took a deep breath and shifted her jaw, which was sore from being clenched shut.

Brooke looked at Mahoney. “You know, I testified in your courtroom.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

She ignored the bailiff and focused on the judge. He was the alpha here even though he wasn’t holding the gun.

Mahoney tossed a look over his shoulder. “I don’t remember you.”

“You should listen to your expert witnesses.” She refused to look at Hurd because the judge had given her tacit permission to speak. “Really, we know what we’re talking about. Every contact leaves a trace.”

The judge darted an annoyed look at her. He tossed the license plate into the shed like a Frisbee and picked up a Mexican license plate, and Brooke’s heart skittered as another element of his plan fell into place.

“You’re not going to get away with this. We’ve left DNA all over the place. In that backseat, in that trunk. On the ground here.”

Mahoney got to his feet and disappeared into the shed. He returned with a red plastic gas can, which he set on the ground right next to her.

She was getting under his skin. She could tell. And she needed to get deeper.

“So . . . you plan to torch the car, is that it?” She shrugged. “Won’t work. Not completely. We’re leaving traces all over the place, just by sitting here breathing. You, too. You left skin cells on that gas pump. And fingerprints. And your face is on the surveillance tape.”

Mahoney shot her a knowing look.

“You think a disguise will help you? Sorry to break it to you, but you’re wrong about that, too.”

Hurd eased closer. Brooke ignored his gun and plunged on, even though her mouth felt so tense she was surprised she could talk.

“Might fool a few border agents, maybe. But long-term? That won’t work either.”

Mahoney darted her a glare now as he tromped into the wooden cabin. The screen door slapped shut, and Brooke looked at her knees because she didn’t want a confrontation with Hurd.

“You think you can talk your way out of this?” He turned and spit in the dirt. “Not going to happen.”

A slight whimper beside her. Cameron hunched deeper into himself. His shoulders were practically at his ears now, and his face was buried against the torn knees of his jeans.

Mahoney was back with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The easy way he carried it made Brooke’s blood turn cold, and she immediately pictured him swinging the weapon up to shoot birds out of the sky. She pictured bursts of feathers and little carcasses raining down.

Hurd kicked her feet with his boots, and Brooke’s confidence wavered. She’d been on a roll, but now she felt insanely reckless for opening her mouth.

Mahoney popped open the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag. From the way he hitched it onto his shoulder, Brooke could tell the bag was heavy. Was it filled with weapons? Ammo? Money?

He unzipped the bag and pulled out three thick stacks of bills, which he handed to Hurd.

“You think they won’t come after you? They will.”

Mahoney dug some keys from his pocket and handed them to Hurd, too, and Brooke felt her window closing even further.

“Even plastic surgery won’t help you! Certain things can’t be disguised. The space between your nostrils, your pupils. The shape of your ears.” The words spilled out of her as she looked at that shotgun. “Facial-recognition software will pick you up in a minute, and it’s all over the world. There’s nowhere you can hide. You think you’re smarter than everyone, but you’re wrong and your game is up!”

Mahoney swung the shotgun back and whack.

Brooke fell sideways, knocked breathless. Stars swam in front of her eyes. She pressed her bound hands against the ground and forced herself up. When her eyes were able to focus again, she looked at him.

It was working. She was getting in his head and pissing him off. She was buying time, but it might not be enough.

Sean, Ric, Callie, somebody find us! She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but she forced herself to just stare defiantly.

Brooke knew this man better than he realized. She’d figured him out. His need for control was his Achilles’ heel, and she had to use that to her advantage. It was the only advantage she had.

He stepped over to her, swinging the shotgun back and forth, missing her battered face by mere inches as he smiled down at her, enjoying her fear.

He stopped the motion with a loud smack of his hand against the barrel. The smile disappeared and his eyes turned cold as death.

“On your feet, bitch.”

? ? ?

Sean skidded to a stop on the dirt road and checked the mailbox.

“It skips a number,” Jasper said.

“This has to be it.” Sean shoved the car into reverse and then hung a right onto the dirt road. They bumped along, passing several locked gates until they came to one that was propped open with a rock.