Duck and Run

by TL Schaefer

  “No questions. Get in the Range Rover.”

  She was glad to see he followed her direction quickly, without complaint. Detouring, she plucked the remote from the visor of the Corvette and beelined for the SUV.

  She settled in and glanced over, happy that Coleman had belted himself in.

  She started the sleek SUV as the wall phone started ringing again. Ignoring the phone, she pulled out her cell. There was only one way to find out if this was on the level.

  She speed-dialed Scott Lincoln. Her friend, Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation agent, and the man who’d hooked her up with this gig after everything fell apart in Austin.

  And got his voicemail.

  “Linc, this is Cris. I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle. I need you to check credentials on Captain Burt England, OCPD, and give me a call back on my cell, ASAP. And while you’re at it, see what you can find on Nick Coleman.” She paused, then added softly. “Hurry up, my friend, ‘cause I think it’s hit the fan.”

  * * *

  Nick glanced at his would-be savior out of the corner of his eye. He knew he’d all but blown his cover with his reaction to her questions, but he’d been momentarily stunned by her take-charge approach, and the way she’d handled the OCPD and figured a way out of the garage. It remained to be seen whether her unquestioned belief in him and her attitude would be good or bad.

  He hadn’t heard the last bit of her conversation with the OCPD, the side door was too far away from the phone, but he’d heard her inflection, figured out that she’d brushed off the men outside.

  It had been like watching a cop in action.

  Scary thought, considering he now suspected the assholes who’d roughed him up were cops.

  Fellow law enforcement officers were the last thing the task force had suspected. It was the last thing he needed.

  He knew he had to slip back into character, and fast, or his cover would be blown. He hoped he wouldn’t make matters worse by responding to her instinctually, rather than as the mild-mannered accountant he was supposed to be. They’d picked him for this job because he looked like Coleman, but the similarities ended there.

  He’d figured out where he was within moments of stepping out of the trunk. He’d been in and out of auto yards for the better part of his life, first as a street-smart kid working in gang-run chop shops, then during his years in the Corps, and finally as an agent for the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, specializing in grand theft auto and the racketeering that so often went along with it. His misspent youth had certainly given him a unique perspective when it came to his job.

  Repo yards looked the same everywhere, although the one they were trapped in seemed better run than most. It was clean, spotless, in fact, and he knew it would pass any inspection the Oklahoma Department of Transportation could dish out.

  The cars were what really caught his attention, to include the one he was currently sitting in. Every single one of them were high-dollar vehicles, with the exception of a mostly restored classic Mustang. Every single one of them fit the profile of the vehicles that were being stolen up and down the I-35 corridor. Hell, he’d even seen the distinctive shape of a McLaren under a tarp in the corner.

  His biggest question right now was also the one that might get him dead. Was the hell-on-wheels woman beside him part of one of the biggest auto fraud conspiracies the heartland had ever seen?

  He couldn’t dismiss her paranoia over dealing with the OCPD, and she’d certainly known the rules, at least from the one-sided part of the conversation he’d overheard. His targets had never used women before, but he had the distinct impression this woman wasn’t quite like most. Right now the bigger question was whether the men who’d abducted him were truly OCPD, or thieves masquerading as cops.

  This got more and more interesting.

  He braced his hands on the dash as they crept forward. The grind of the garage door cut into his thoughts as it opened slowly. Too slowly.

  From beneath the rising door he could see the legs of the men stationed by the Lincoln, saw them as they moved forward to intercept their escape.

  The door slid up to man-height, then further, and the woman at his side gunned the engine, rocketing them out of the garage, missing the door with scant inches to spare. He ducked reflexively, pulling his hands off the dash to protect his head.

  Jesus. She was nuts.

  They flew from the safe enclosure of the garage, barely missing the two men who’d approached the door, weapons drawn.

  Nick scooted down even further in his seat, sure they were going to finish the job they’d already tried to start. Losing him now wouldn’t be acceptable to their boss, not when they hadn’t gotten any information from him. They’d be in less trouble if they brought in a corpse than no one at all.

  The Rover swept past the two men, broadsiding the Lincoln with an unearthly shriek, tearing the driver’s side to pieces. The SUV shuddered, but made it out of the parking lot, accompanied by the thwack of bullets hitting the back of the vehicle.

  As she maneuvered the luxury SUV, the blonde whirlwind tapped a series of short bursts on the horn. Nick recognized it as a bastardized form of Morse Code, but didn’t know what she’d communicated. He could only assume it was a warning to the dispatcher.

  They took a left at the end of the parking lot with a screech, and then barreled out into the street.

  Nick peered between the headrests. He saw, with intense satisfaction, that the Lincoln’s front end was mangled beyond repair. The OCPD, if that’s who they truly were, wouldn’t be chasing them anywhere soon.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, and then focused his attention on the woman behind the wheel. Her hands were tight around the steering wheel again, her face scrunched in concentration.

  Clearing his throat, he extended his hand once again, determined to play his role to the hilt.

  “Nick Coleman,” he said, then echoed her earlier words. “And who might you be?”

  His savior, or the instrument of his destruction?

  Chapter 3

  Ignoring her companion’s outstretched hand, Cris kept her attention on the road and the traffic that flowed around them. She could quite easily see England commandeering one of the yard’s vehicles and coming after her.

  While the Rover had been the perfect way to escape the garage, now that they were on the streets it was one big, fat, orange target.

  They had to get out of it, and fast.

  In the few minutes they’d been in the garage, the storm had picked up power and force, defying the forecaster’s timeline she’d heard this morning. Wind gusts now buffeted the SUV, and it looked like the heavens were going to drench them in a deluge any moment.

  Coleman was still looking at her; she could feel the weight of his gaze dancing along her nerve endings. It was not something she particularly cared for. She switched her attention from the road long enough to look him in the eye.

  “Cris O’Connor.” She caught herself. Dammit, she’d been Cris Eagen for eighteen months. Now was not the time to screw up and revert to her maiden name. Cristine O’Connor was a name associated with the bloodbath in Austin, with her fall from grace. She covered her slip by nodding to the dash. “Could you please turn on the radio? We’ve got a heck of a storm brewing.”

  Coleman dropped the hand that still hung suspended, waiting for her shake, and sat for a long moment, then shook his head slightly and leaned forward to fiddle with the power and volume.

  “...tornado warning for Oklahoma County. Affected areas include Del City, Midwest City and Tinker Air Force Base. Once again, Doppler radar is showing a strong hook-echo and the possibility of tornadic formation. While there are no reports of anything on the ground, residents are urged to take precautions immediately. Move to an interior room...”

  Cris tuned out the rest of the report. Del City and Tinker.

  Her usage of her real name and the goons back at the garage were the least of their worries. They were right in between the two
locations named. Smack dab in the middle of a tornado waiting to happen.

  The headache she’d been pushing back all morning returned with a vengeance right about the time the skies decided to open up.

  Sheets of rain pelted the Rover and the streets, quickly forming mini rivers. At least the men back in the yard had more to worry about now than the two of them. Storms like this, especially in the Midwest, could turn quiet, dry streets into flash flood zones in the snap of a finger. With the SUV they had a clearance most other vehicles couldn’t boast.

  “Talk to me, Cris. What’s going on?”

  Coleman’s voice, while intrusive, was welcome. It gave her something else to think of rather than their impending doom. And as soon as they were clear of this, Mr. Nick Coleman was going to have some serious explaining to do.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  She felt, rather than saw, his head shake.

  “Well, those places the meteorologist mentioned? We’re in between them. At least we don’t have to worry about the baddies back at the yard, though. They’re in this as much as we are.”

  “No kidding.”

  His quiet declaration caught her off guard. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t his easy acceptance. Yet another thing that was off kilter about him.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I have an idea, but we’ll be cutting it close. The friend I called, before we left the garage? His house is a few miles down the road. It might not be the smartest thing to do in this weather, but we’re going to head that way and hope nothing touches down before we get there.”

  She paused and took a deep, cleansing breath. “In the meantime, talk to me, but keep an ear peeled for the weatherman, okay?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to talk about?”

  “Tell me about yourself, and how you ended up in that trunk.” Sooner was better than later, and she needed to hear why she’d risked her neck for him.

  You couldn’t ask for a better opening than that.

  He could cement his cover while he pondered his companion.

  Cristine O’Connor. There couldn’t be two of them walking around, not with the way she handled herself. He’d heard the stories, and knew she’d dropped off the face of the earth after the debacle in Austin.

  It was a long stretch from golden girl of the Texas Rangers to repo agent. How the mighty had fallen. At least he knew she wasn’t part of the fraud ring.

  Their hair-raising escape had proven that in no uncertain terms.

  He cleared his throat and launched into his story, trying his best to sound like he knew what he was talking about.

  “As you know, my name is Nick Coleman. I’m an auditor for a conglomerate of auto interests. I got sent down here from Detroit to look into some figures that didn’t match at the local dealerships. Apparently my questions made it to the wrong ears, and next thing I know, I’m getting abducted and beaten up and finally shoved into the trunk of that car.”

  He swiveled in the seat to face her more fully and turned on the charm. “I haven’t had the chance to say thank you, by the way. I have no doubt that you saved my life back there.”

  She snorted in reply. “Me either. So you’re an accountant?”

  Nick did his best to look offended, when secretly he thought the same thing. “There is a world of difference between accountants and auditors.”

  “Do tell.”

  Her wry response had him biting back another smile. Instead of launching into the detailed explanation he knew by rote, he turned the tables on her, curious as to how she’d handle his question.

  “What about you? I mean, I know your name, but that’s about all. Where were we before? I’m assuming it’s legal.” Nick forced a note of trepidation into his voice, even as he thought wuss!

  She laughed again, this time a real, unrestrained laugh, not one of the snorts he had almost become used to hearing in their brief association. It lanced straight through him and settled in regions best left alone, considering both the circumstances and the woman.

  “It’s on the up-and-up. I work for a high-end repossession agency.”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “Year and a half.” Her reply was terse as she leaned forward slightly, concentrating on pushing the SUV through the rising waters.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Same amount of time. I moved here from Austin.” Again, her reply was almost absentminded.

  “Why’d you leave?” Nick knew he was starting to sound like a cop during an interrogation, but given her complete attention to their predicament, he figured it was probably the only time he’d get a straight answer.

  He was wrong.

  She shot him a telling glance, and the muscles in her jaw tightened even more.

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Oh.” Nick let it go at that. Personal reasons. Yeah, you might say that. Three dead hostages and a suspect laid at your feet could be considered personal. Especially since she’d been the one to put the bullet between the perp’s eyes. He vaguely remembered some other scuttlebutt that had made the rounds but couldn’t put his finger on what he’d heard. It had been two years, after all. But dammit, it would have been good to add one more thing to his arsenal. He needed all the help he could get.

  “We made it.” Her relieved voice yanked him from his musings.

  She pulled into a driveway, drove past the house and jumped out of the SUV. Darting to the garage, she punched numbers into the pad set into the side of the building. Like many older homes in the Midwest, the garage was detached. Through the thick curtain of rain, Nick could make out the back porch of an aging but well-kept bungalow.

  She sprinted back to the truck as the garage door lifted, and slid into the driver’s seat, soaked to the bone.

  A new bulletin from the weather service competed with the incessant pound of rain on the roof of the Rover.

  “We have a tornado on the ground west of Del City. Take immediate shelter if you live anywhere in Del City or on Tinker Air Force Base.”

  Gunning the engine, she rocketed into the garage then leapt out of the driver’s seat, hollering at him as the tornado siren began to wail.

  “Let’s go!”

  Nick was two steps behind her.

  Closing the garage door behind them with a slap to the wall-mounted panel, she wrenched the side entrance open.

  A fury of wind and rain and flying debris pelted them as they raced into the yard. The eerie howl of the siren cut through the whipping wind, escorting them as they ran to the opening of the below-ground storm shelter.

  She lifted the steel plate door, shoving Nick in front of her, then clambered down behind him, slamming it shut behind her and throwing the deadbolt, locking them in complete darkness.

  Nick had never been bothered by tight, dark spaces, but even he wasn’t immune to the combination of the storm raging above and the complete absence of light in their cave of safety.

  The air was dank and cement-scented, clogging his nose and throat, forcing the breath from his lungs.

  A brief kick of panic shot through him. At least back in the trunk of the car he’d begun to formulate a plan on how to turn his “capture” to his advantage; now he had nothing to go on, not even visual stimuli to ground himself. Instead, it seemed he was swirling with the storm, whipping through the trees, riding the funnel of the tornado as it ate everything in its path.

  The howl of the siren was barely audible, but its ghostly wail only added to the chill beginning to seep into him.

  Those sensations were abruptly halted by a tiny pinprick of light that centered him, pulled him home from the storm, back to his mission.

  Cris fumbled for the small penlight attached to her keychain, flashing it quickly around the room, then at her companion. His bruised face looked even worse in this light, giving him an almost spectral appearance, like a mummy rising from the grave. She shook the morbid thought off and conce
ntrated on finding the battery-powered lantern she knew Linc kept in the hidey-hole.

  Her light flashed around the narrow confines of the storm shelter before settling on the stack of supplies in a corner at the end of the room. Navigating the space carefully, she squeezed past Coleman, studiously ignoring the low-level surge that shot through her as his chest and thighs pressed against hers.

  She’d been without a man too long if she was starting to get the warm fuzzies for an accountant from Detroit in the middle of a tornado. It was plain wrong, especially given her rotten past with brainiacs, specifically her ex, Trent. As soon as they got out of this mess she was going to seriously rethink her dating schedule.

  What she really needed to do was concentrate on the here-and-now rather than the sparks the number-cruncher was tossing her way, and she could think of no better way to do it than to shed a little more illumination on the subject than her measly pen light provided.

  She dug out the lantern and flicked it on, the diffused light throwing back the utter darkness behind her.

  Coleman was in the same spot, looking at her with a weird expression on his face.

  “What?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. She was afraid he’d felt the zing between them as well.

  He shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out how I ended up in this situation.” He flashed her a wry grin. “You know, the whole assault, shot at by bad guys, dodging a tornado situation.”

  Cris found herself smiling back wearily, against her better judgment. The adrenaline high of the last half-hour was wearing off. “Well, we’re safe from the tornado here, and they shouldn’t be able to find us since I garaged the Rover. I can’t imagine they’ll make the leap that I headed here after simply dropping Linc’s name, and even if they did, the weather isn’t their friend. I think we’re clear for the meantime.” She gestured to the narrow bench lining one wall of the shelter. “Might as well get comfortable. No telling how long this thing is going to last.”