Death Angel (19 page)

He’d have to time his move; as they got farther west the country would get rougher, and nightfall became more imminent. He couldn’t let her get so far ahead that she could cut her headlights and turn off the road—a risky move, but he had no doubt she’d try it. He’d have to tuck in close behind her when it began getting dark, and if she hadn’t been forced to stop for gas by the time his gauge read lower than a quarter of a tank, that was when he’d make his move.

What he did depended on what she did. She could be armed. If she pulled a weapon on him, then he’d have no choice in the matter and he’d take her out. His own weapon, a Glock 17, lay on the seat beside his right thigh. He didn’t worry about being caught with a weapon; he had a federal license that would pass inspection by any cop, state or local. The license was fake, but discovering that would take digging through several layers of camouflage. The weapon had no serial number on it, couldn’t be traced to him, and if he needed to he’d ditch it without a second thought.

The time was fast approaching when he’d have to make up his mind. Take her out, or peel off and go back to
New York
? Why go to this much trouble unless he intended to do the job? Amusement and entertainment weren’t good reasons for being here. He was spending too much time and money following her unless he collected his fee at the end of the ride.

None of his previous targets had meant anything to him, pro or con. Human life, as a theory, was no more valuable to him than, say, the life of a housefly. His hits weren’t motivated by notions of right and wrong, politics, religion, love, hate, or anything else other than the fee he earned. Drea, though, was…different. He knew her, and not just physically, though their skin chemistry was stronger than anything he’d ever experienced before.

He knew her intelligence, knew her guts and her determination. She was a fighter, a survivor. He hadn’t seen her relaxed, completely herself, but then he suspected she hadn’t let down her guard in years. She had decided on her course of action, then never looked back.

He might disagree with the wisdom of hooking up with someone like Rafael Salinas, but he didn’t know what Drea’s circumstances had been before. Maybe
Salinas was a huge step up, though that was difficult to fathom.
Salinas was a thug; smarter than most, but still a thug. For Drea to keep up her act, without a single false note, for as long as she had indicated a level of self-discipline he hadn’t seen before—except in himself.

Was that why he’d hesitated for so long? Because he saw something in her that reminded him of himself? Not his lack of emotion, because Drea had enough emotion for the both of them, but the things she’d hidden from
Salinas were what he saw and enjoyed. Maybe that was why he hadn’t yet taken action. On the other hand, he hadn’t yet told
Salinas where to wire his down payment, either, and he didn’t do a job until he verified the specified amount was in his account.

Everything kept circling back to the same thing: yes, or no? Do the job, or drive away? Let her go, or take the two million?

If he didn’t take the job,
Salinas would send someone else after her. But she had a big head start, and once she had her stolen millions in cash her options were pretty much unlimited. If she got caught, it would be through pure bad luck. The only way she’d be truly safe, was if
Salinas thought she was dead.

He could do that, take the money and tell
Salinas the job was done, but he’d never faked a job before. His value lay in his reliability, and his accuracy.

On the other hand, if he was ever going to screw a client, it would be
Salinas. He had nothing but contempt for the son of a bitch.

He glanced at the sky. There was probably another hour, hour and a half of daylight, and the terrain was getting noticeably rougher as the earth began wrinkling as the land rose toward the
Rockies. The actual mountains were still a good distance away, but they didn’t rise from a flat nothing; it was a gradual lift, an increase in the folds of the earth’s crust, and then the big eruption. The longer he waited, the rougher the land, and the more opportunity she’d have to give him the slip.

He pressed his boot on the accelerator, and the truck began eating up the distance between him and Drea.

16

THE TRUCK WAS GAINING ON HER. DREA HADN’T LOOKED in the mirror for several minutes as she paid attention to the road, which was developing some twists and turns at the same time the elevation was rising and falling. Right now they were climbing a low ridge, with the land falling away to the right; not an extremely steep drop nor a long one, but throw in the occasional sharp curve and her driving skills were being tested. She was out of practice, despite the past week, and most of her driving had been done on flat land anyway.

It had been awhile since she’d seen a road sign that gave her the highway number, and she began to worry that she might have missed a crucial turn, because they hadn’t met another car for at least five minutes and the road was noticeably narrower. Was she still on her chosen route to
Denver? She couldn’t exactly pull over and look at her map; there was no shoulder to the road, not to mention there was a killer on her ass.

Then she dared a glance in the mirror and saw the truck was no more than fifty yards behind her, and closing the remaining gap at a frightening pace.

Her heart leaped into her throat, and her hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. He’d evidently decided now was the time, that the road was deserted enough and he didn’t have to wait any longer. She’d hoped for night to catch them, hoped…

She didn’t know what she’d hoped. That he’d wait until she had the best chance of giving him the slip? Yeah, like that was going to happen. She should have expected this.

He’d tightened the gap by another twenty yards and was close enough now that she could make him out in the truck cab, see the dark sunglasses he was wearing.

How much was Rafael paying him? Maybe she could pay him more. Maybe—Why was she letting herself get distracted with this crap, as if she’d be able to negotiate with him? He wouldn’t mess around and talk about the situation, he’d kill her and leave—thirty seconds, tops.

Damn it! Drea was suddenly furious with herself, with him, with Rafael, with every damn thing. It couldn’t end like this, she refused to let it end like this. Rafael was not going to be the death of her, not when the bastard owed her for two years of putting up with his bullshit, for smiling when she wanted to slap him, for giving him blow jobs and acting as if it made her happy. What kind of stupid-ass fool thought giving a blow job was satisfying? He owed her for giving her to another man, for treating her like a whore and making her feel like a whore.

And damn that other man for being him, for not treating her like a whore, for being gentle and giving her such incredible pleasure before walking out without a single backward look, throwing at her the careless words, “Once was enough.” Was he her punishment for all the men she’d played, all the men she’d used? How damn ironic was it that the one time she thought—Never mind what she’d thought, forget that she’d begged him to take her with him, because regardless of what she’d thought, their minds certainly hadn’t been running in the same direction.

She went around a curve too fast and the back end of the car slid a little; the landscape, so clear in the hot, mellow light of the setting sun, was suddenly blurry. Her eyes stung with tears that she refused to let fall. She had cried enough over him already. She had learned never to look back, never to give fate a second chance to kick her in the teeth.

“Screw you,” she said to the reflection in the rearview mirror, to the expressionless man behind the dark sunglasses.

The road corkscrewed on her, an S curve so sharp she was in it before she realized how extreme the angle was. She hit the brakes as she felt the back tires skidding once more, pulling her to the right, toward where the pavement fell away to nothing.

“SLOW DOWN,” HE said sharply, knowing she couldn’t hear him, as he watched the rear end of the car skid around. He took his foot off the gas, letting the truck slow itself as he entered the series of curves behind her. Maybe if he backed off a little she wouldn’t push the curves so hard; the truck didn’t corner as well as a car did, anyway.

Her back tires slid off the pavement, throwing up a spray of gravel. He watched in futile anger, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

DREA’S HEARTBEAT STUTTERED wildly as the car slid toward the edge, a debilitating sense of helplessness filling her because the laws of physics had her in their grip and there was nothing she could do to get loose.

She was in the most acute part of the curve, with empty air in front of her and to the right. Time froze for an instant, then clicked forward to the next frame, then the next, like watching a slide show with someone else controlling the clicker. In each frame she knew exactly what was happening, her thoughts flying much faster than the frames were advancing.

First frame: in that instant she knew that if she steered into the skid, she would drive straight off the road, down into the tree-studded bowl contained between the two halves of the S-curve. Even if she survived, any wreck at all would be the death of her, because he was right behind her and he’d be able to take his shot anytime he wanted.

Second frame: in the split second that the back tires skidded ever closer to the edge, the car began tilting backward and the bottom dropped out of her stomach, as if she were on a roller-coaster ride. Through the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the big pickup truck behind her and the man inside, and a surge of pain hit her so hard that her skittering heartbeat faltered under the impact. He hadn’t wanted her. If only he had. If only he’d held out his hand to her when she begged “Take me with you.” But he hadn’t, and he never would.

Third frame: the back tires suddenly found traction, digging into the crumbling edge and sending great fans of dirt and gravel arcing outward. The steering wheel wrenched to the side, turning with a life of its own and tearing out of her white-knuckled grip. The car shot forward, and took her over the edge. Maybe she screamed; she might have screamed the whole time, but she was aware only of an all-encompassing silence.

Fourth frame: the car seemed to hang in midair for long, agonizing seconds. She looked across the gap to where the road curved in the second half of the S, thinking inanely that if this were a movie the car would make that jump and land on the pavement on the other side, jouncing wildly and maybe losing a bumper but otherwise miraculously unscathed. But this wasn’t a movie and the moment ended. The weight of the engine pulled the front end down, and she saw the trees below rushing up at her like spears from a missile launcher.

Just split seconds, slices of time, yet her vision was crystal clear, her thoughts ordered and full. This was the end, then. She had thought about death; unlike most young people, she had met death when her placenta separated during her twenty-second week of pregnancy. She had almost died; her baby had died, died while still inside her body, then cut from her body still warm and motionless, taking all of her dreams and agonizingly intense love with him. He’d been so tiny, so frail and limp and turning blue even as she sobbed and begged God or whoever to let him live, to take her instead because he was innocent and she wasn’t, because he had all the possibilities of the world lying before him while she was worthless, but that must not have seemed like a good trade because her baby hadn’t lived.

She had, in a way. She’d gone through the motions. She’d survived, because at the core of things she was a survivor even though there would never be another baby for her. And she had never loved again, never felt anything for anyone until a little over a week ago, when he, the nameless he, had broken through her shell and touched her.