by Vella Day
The engine cut off.
Her mind went numb for a moment. She pushed back in her seat, her breath whooshing out of her. Jake!
His body was crumpled forward over the deflated airbag. Susan squeezed his shoulder, fear and panic gripping her. “Jake?”
Her pulse raced, and her chest throbbed from the pressure of where the seatbelt had bit into her, inches from her previous injury. Her nose hurt from the airbag and her body ached, but at least she was alive—and more importantly alert.
He moaned and she was never so happy to hear that sound. He was alive!
Jake lifted his head an inch then dropped it back onto the deflated bag, his arms limp at his side. Blood coursed down his nose from the head wound.
“Jake?” Her voice shook.
She wanted to shake him hard, to wake him, but if she moved him and he had a concussion, she might do more harm.
She scanned the road to see if anyone was around to help them or if the red truck was hell bent on killing them. No one was around. Why had the other driver taken off? There was little doubt he meant to injure them—or kill them—but why leave before seeing the deed complete?
Jake's bleeding had to take top priority. Then she'd get help, assuming someone would drive by. They'd gone off the road a good hundred feet. Someone from above might not notice them unless she made it up to the ridge and flagged someone down.
She checked the glove box for some tissues, but it was empty. Damn. Her suitcase was in the trunk and the blood had already run down his shirt.
Susan pulled off her lightweight sweater, wadded the material into a ball and pressed the bandage to his forehead.
“This will help stem the blood flow.” She wasn't sure if he could hear her, but her own voice comforted her.
His right eye cracked open. “Susan? Ouch.”
“Sorry. We were in an accident. You've got blood trickling down your face and shirt.”
He moaned again. “You okay?”
“I'm fine. You're the one who needs help.” She appreciated how he put her safety above his. How had she ever questioned his need to protect her? She’d been a fool. Maybe being in a coma had messed with her brain function after all.
Jake grabbed the material, leaned back and held the sweater to his forehead. His mouth gaped open as if he were grasping for breath. “Is he gone?”
“If you mean the guy who hit us, yes. We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No.” Jake winced.
“If my head were cut, wouldn't you insist I get help?”
“Yes, but I'm not you.”
Stubborn man.
As he sat up, he sucked in a large breath through clenched teeth. He must have broken a rib. They so didn't need this.
“Did you get the license plate of the red truck?” he asked.
Her mouthed dropped. “You're kidding, right? The whole thing happened in seconds. My heart was pounding so fast, I was lucky to remember to brace myself.”
Jake removed the sweater, turned it around and dabbed his forehead again. “You got one of those large bandages in your suitcase I could have?”
“Those I have plenty of.” Thankful she was able to help, she pulled the keys from the ignition to unlock the trunk.
As she stepped out onto the grass, her leg buckled, and a king-sized ache squeezed her knee. She dropped to the ground. Jake's door rattled, but apparently he couldn't open it. “Susan?”
“I'm okay. I'm okay. Don't get out.”
With effort, she pulled herself up and slowly walked to the trunk, putting most of her weight on her right leg. A moment later, she opened her suitcase and retrieved her toiletry kit with the bandages.
A car whizzed by. She waved, but they didn't even slow down, proof no one could see them from the road.
She came over to the driver's side and yanked on the handle. Crap. The impact had dented the side, preventing her from opening the door. “I need to go to the other side. Hold on.”
Once she slid in her side, she reached to take back the bloody sweater.
He held up his hand. “You don't need to be touching my blood.” He swiped the sweater across his forehead. “Give me the bandage.”
She opened the package and handed it to him. He looked in the rear view mirror, aimed, and pressed it to his head. “Good as new.” He smiled, but his lips appeared unsteady.
She didn't like the look of his pasty skin. “How are we going to get out of here?”
“Let me see if I can drive this dented heap. We don't need to open my door.”
“Do you have a headache?”
His brow rose. “What do you think?”
“Then I should drive.”
“No.”
Jake's cell phone had fallen out of his pocket and was on the seat. She picked it up. “I'm calling 9-1-1.”
He placed his hand on hers. “No. We can't afford the delay—or have whoever did this learn we lived through the crash.”
He did have a point. That horrible person could be monitoring his cell. Somehow the killer had found them. Via Jake's cell made the most sense.
“I'm not letting you drive. You could have a concussion. You were unconscious, at least for a little bit.”
“I'm fine.”
Men. “If you're behind the wheel and start vomiting, we could be in big trouble.”
“You win. I don't have the energy to argue. “ He slapped the wheel. “The rental company is going to have a fit. When they see the damages, it might be hard to rent another car from them, and our cash is limited. Cross your fingers this puppy is drivable.”
They hadn’t hit the tree that hard.
“Don't you have a credit card? We'll need to rent another vehicle, especially since he knows this one.”
“Yes, but cards are easy to trace. Someone knows where we've been and where we were staying. Next time they could kill us.”
“Which begs the question, why didn't they finish the job?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Maybe they wanted to scare us.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No. Someone must have driven by and scared him off.”
“If someone drove by, why didn't they stop and help us?”
He opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. “I wish I had the answers to all of your questions, but I don't. What I do know is we need to leave. Now.”
“That's the first sensible thing you've said.” She twisted toward him.
His jaw lowered. “Susan, you're bleeding.”
She looked down at the large, red stain over her breast. Her stitches must have broken. “Damn.” She peeked down her top. Blood had caked around her wound. “The impact of the seatbelt must have torn my stitches. I'll be okay.”
“If we don't want to cause people to notice us, we both better change.”
“Right.”
She jumped out again. This time her leg held. She searched through both suitcases for something suitable. She found a new shirt for Jake and a t-shirt and sweatshirt for herself. She still wasn't able to wear a bra and had to cover up the best she could.
She tossed him his shirt. “Here.”
He had no problem getting out of his clothes. Once again, Susan was unable to take her eyes off his rippling abs and well-defined pecs.
He glanced over and smiled. “What are you waiting for?”
Jerk. He knew she was staring. While there were only trees on the other side of the car, she didn't want to strip outside, so she climbed into the backseat. With her back to Jake, she took off her shirt and reapplied a clean bandage. Once dressed, she waited for him to get out so she could climb back into the driver's seat. “Let's go find Ashley Woods.”
**
During the five-hour drive to Atlanta, Jake had fallen asleep for half of it. His headache hadn't lessened, but it hadn't gotten worse either. He should have forced himself to stay awake. Someone might have followed them, and Susan had no skill to detect a tail.
“Stop worrying,” she
said the moment he opened his eyes.
“What?”
“I know you think I'm not watching who's behind us, but I am.”
The woman was a psychic now? Had she read his mind? Jake studied the rear view mirror as Susan pulled off the Interstate.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
After they sped through a drive-through, they located Ashley Wood's house, situated a block off a main thoroughfare. No one had followed them—or so he wanted to believe.
“Looks clear. That's the house.” He pointed to the small, cozy yellow house with the attached porch. “Park in front.” He loved GPS.
Susan wilted once she put the car in gear. Maybe he should have insisted they stop at a motel before coming here. As much as she claimed she was okay, he could tell from the way she kept blinking that she needed to rest.
Once they told Ashley about the impending danger, they'd get a room and relax.
Jake eased out, and then helped Susan out the passenger side door. Having one working door sucked.
Richard did well picking this home for Ashley. It was on a nice street. Even the red and yellow pots next to the white wicker rocking chair oozed Southern charm. He rang the bell and waited.
“How are you going to break the news to her that her life is in immediate danger?” she asked. “Will you make up some story that this place had been compromised?”
“I'll decide when I meet her.”
“She's a tough girl. I think she can handle the truth.”
He'd been about the knock again when screeching tires and a loud crash tore his attention from the door.
A block down the street at a large intersection, a black SUV had plowed into a blue VW on the driver side, pushing the smaller vehicle across the road.
Adrenaline sped through his veins. “Stay here,” he said as he raced down the path to the street, grimacing at the pounding in his head and chest. Maybe he had broken a rib as Susan believed.
Before he reached the accident, the SUV backed up, turned around and drove down the street past him. The dark tinted windows prevented him for identifying anything about the driver, and the vehicle didn't have a license plate. Shit.
Jake's only thought was to help the poor person inside the car once he reached the vehicle.
Another loud crash forced him to stop and look back. The same black SUV had rear-ended the driver's side front bumper of their rental. What the fuck was going on? Susan stood frozen on the porch.
“Get down!” he yelled. The driver might have a gun.
Susan dropped to her haunches and covered her head.
The moment the SUV took off and didn't fire any shots, Jake was torn between going after the guy, helping the victim, and checking on Susan. Since Susan was uninjured and the hit-and-run driver wasn't spewing any bullets, Jake decided the injured person needed him more. The cops could search for the driver.
When he reached the crumpled car, the woman inside was slumped over on the seat, her eyes open, her breath short, appearing to be in shock. Jake patted his pants for his phone to call for help. Damn. He looked up to get Susan's attention. She was at their car with the phone in hand. Smart girl.
He didn't want to move the bloodied victim and saw no reason to touch her. The side window was gone and Jake leaned in. “Help is on the way. Hold on.” Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. “Can you tell me your name?”
She blinked, giving him hope she understood.
“Ash...”
Jake's heart nearly stopped. “Are you Ashley Woods?”
Her lips pressed together right before her eyes closed. No answer. While he didn't see any external injuries other than the contusion on her forehead, there might be massive internal injuries. This girl looked like she was hanging on by a thread.
Susan rushed over to his side. “How is she?”
He shook his head. “Unconscious, but alive.”
“I called 9-1-1.”
“Good.”
They stayed by her side to make sure the maniac who'd rammed her didn't return. When he heard the ambulance in the distance, he figured it would be smarter not to become involved. He would call in the description of the car once they were out of sight.
“Come on. We need to leave.”
Her brows furrowed, but she thankfully didn't argue. He quickly checked out the damage to the bumper of their rental car. The grillwork was bent, now matching the other side. It was possible the radiator was damaged.
“I hope this sucker runs.”
“The bastard rammed us for no apparent reason,” she said. “Unless it's the same person who drove the red truck.”
“Possibly.” The siren neared. “Come on.”
Susan hobbled to the door. “I'll drive. You can be the lookout person.”
Worked for him. After she slipped in, he got in and kept an eye on the side view mirror.
The car turned over on the third try. “Go, but don't make it look like we're racing away,” he said.
She turned and leered at him. “I'm not dumb.”
That, he knew. They'd rounded the corner when a light and siren flashed behind them. Shit.
“What should I do?” she said in pure panic mode.
“Pull over. We've got nothing to hide.”
She glanced at him, her lips pressed firmly together. Once she stopped, she rolled the window down half way, since the dent in the car prevented it from moving any more.
It took the officer several minutes before he approached them. No doubt he was running the plates, what good that would do him.
“Let me do the talking,” Jake said.
“I argue for a living. Maybe I should explain. After all, I'm the one on the run.”
“And I'm the one with the FBI badge.”
The officer rapped on the window. “May I see your license and registration?”
Her mouth dropped open. She didn't have a license and shouldn't have been driving. They were in a shitload of trouble.
11
Only because Jake had flashed his badge had the police been willing to discuss the situation in an office instead of a small, stuffy interrogation room.
He'd waited for close to thirty minutes before Officer Vargas walked in—Hispanic, pock mocked, and thin to the point of anorexic looking.
Jake was hurting, irritated, and had run out of patience. “Where's Mrs. Chapman?”
He was pissed they'd separated them. She didn't need this hassle dumped on her.
“Somewhere safe.” Vargas hoisted up his belt, reminding him of the cop in Lake City, only Vargas' pants threatened to slip off his hips if he didn't put another notch in the leather.
Jake had done interrogations and used evasive sarcasm as a way to get the informant to tell the truth. The cop's tactic wouldn't work with him. “I'm not sure what more I can tell you.”
He kept his voice non-threatening, hoping Vargas would see his side.
“Other than you went to talk to some witness, and when you were knocking on her door, someone ran into her. You called 9-1-1 and left.”
“There's no crime in that.”
“It is if you hit the victim and the victim is dead.”
A giant claw grabbed his gut. “Ashley Wood didn't make it?”
“I'm afraid not.” Any residual sarcasm was replaced with sincerity.
Jake swallowed to keep the bile from rising. “What evidence do you have that my car hit hers?” Once a cop, always a cop, even if he now worked for the FBI.
Vargas skimmed the two-page report. “Your front end is banged up.”
Jake had figured that was his only evidence and leaned back in his chair. The sooner he got this bozo to understand the circumstances, the sooner he'd get to take Susan out of here. She needed medical attention.
“I already explained how that happened. Can't you take paint samples and see that my fender was dented by a black car and not a blue one? And the driver's side of my rear bumper was smashed by a red truck.�
�
Only problem was that the test could take weeks. He bet the Atlanta crime lab had more important things to do than test paint chips.
“Your car is being impounded as we speak. Your luck sucks. If I were you, I wouldn't drive for a while.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Vargas cleared his throat. “Once we're convinced what you say is true, we'll release your car back to you.”
He had to be kidding. “Ashley Wood, as well as Taylor Daniels are both under the protection of the FBI. Call my boss. He'll verify that fact.”
Jake debated using Susan's real name, but at this point, no one could be trusted. He didn't like Stanton finding out about this debacle, but Jake didn't see any way out of this dilemma.
“I already contacted the GBI. They're looking into your claim.”
A knock sounded on the door and a young woman poked her head in the office. “A detective Brad Carroll, from the GBI is here to see you.”
Officer Vargas smiled. “That was fast. We'll get to the bottom of this soon enough.”
A tall, beefy man, with a shaved head came in. He flashed a badge and shook Vargas's hand.
He glanced at Jake. “I heard we had a little incident here involving someone in the program.”
Jake didn't appreciate his arrogant attitude. “Hardly a little incident. Did you get in contact with Richard Thomason of the FBI in Quantico?” Sometimes it paid to name drop.
“Sure did. He said he never heard of Ashley Wood, Taylor Daniels, or Jake Yarnell.”
Every muscle tensed. Jake swallowed his desire to beat the shit out of something or someone. “Do I get my one phone call?” Jake said, his teeth grinding together.
“Of course.” Vargas pointed to his phone.
He couldn't count on Stanton backing him, but Tom would cover his back.
He dialed Tom's cell number. Five rings, six rings. Pick up, dammit.
**
Tom Traynor and Stanton Lowry burst into Richard's office. From the speed with which they rushed in, and the pissed off look on their faces, Richard knew his grip on things might slip further.
“What's wrong?” Richard painted on his best face of concern.