She turned, still locked within the safety of Quinn’s arms, and found him watching her.
“Hi,” she said softly.
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then her lips.
“It’s raining,” he said.
She nodded. “Yeah, I heard it.”
“You know what my favorite thing to do is?” he asked.
“No.”
“Make love when it rains. What about you?”
She traced the shape of his eyebrows, then his mouth, with the tip of her finger and frowned.
“I think I have a new favorite thing.”
“What?” Quinn asked.
“You.”
Emotion stifled what Quinn had been going to say. Instead, he cupped the side of her face and pulled her close.
Rain peppered against the roof as Kelly crawled on top of Quinn. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears as he lifted her up, then slowly lowered her down onto his erection. She sighed as his body filled her, then cried out from the pleasure as he started to move.
Luis de Jesus and his partner, Armenio, were coming out of a Texaco truck stop outside Oklahoma City when the first highway patrol car appeared. They thought nothing of it until two more topped the hill right behind the first.
Armenio looked at Luis, then threw down the bag of chips and bottle of pop he’d been carrying and ran toward the car. Luis was right behind him. By the time Luis had the key in the ignition, the first patrol car had slammed to a stop, blocking the only exit. The patrolman was out of his car and kneeling behind the open door of his cruiser, yelling for them to get out. The other two patrol cars added to the melee by stopping on either side of the first, creating a phalanx of black and white.
Luis was reaching for his gun when Armenio grabbed his arm.
“No, Luis. They will kill us.”
“And Ortega will kill us if we fail.”
Armenio cursed and then threw himself out of the door onto the ground, screaming at the police not to shoot.
Luis chose the other way out and opened fire.
It was over in a matter of seconds. The third shot entered Luis de Jesus’s head near his ear and exited—with a large portion of his brains—into the back seat.
Armenio started talking before they could get him off the ground. By the time he was handcuffed and situated in the back of a patrol car, the patrolman knew they had more than they’d bargained for.
The patrolman got on the radio, eyed the man in the back of his car, then keyed the mike.
“This is Whaley. Someone tell the captain to notify the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation. We’ve got someone I think they need to see.”
As the car pulled away, Armenio looked back, saw the body of his friend lying on the ground in a spreading pool of blood and breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
There was a party going on in the Dead Pig, outside of Jackson, Mississippi. As bars went, it was on the lower rung of society, as were the patrons who frequented it. The theme of the party was something new—sort of a scavenger hunt for ex-cons and lowlife. They called it Hunt the Fed, and with a two million dollar prize for the winner, the crowd was growing by the hour. Sometime during the last forty-eight hours, a picture of Kelly Sloan, along with a description and the tag number of Quinn McCord’s truck, had begun to circulate within the underbelly of society. A stack of photocopies of her picture were sitting at the end of the bar beside a half-empty bowl of pretzels and an unopened bottle of beer.
Suddenly someone let out a rebel yell and then shot off a gun. For a heartbeat the sudden silence after the roar was startling. Then the shooter, a long-haired biker with a death’s-head tattoo on his forehead, yelled, “Let’s get it on!”
The bar emptied within seconds, as men and women alike grabbed a copy of her picture, then raced for their vehicles. Nearly one hundred cars, vans and trucks, as well as a half-dozen Harleys, took to the highway. The race was on to find a woman named Kelly and claim the prize for her life.
Kelly was finishing the last bite of a sausage biscuit when Quinn came back to the Tuskeegee motel. He’d been gone for almost an hour, and Kelly had been starting to worry. But now he was back, and the grin on his face was contagious. Kelly found herself returning the smile even before she knew why.
“What?” she asked.
“You ready to ride?”
“Yes. I saved you a sausage biscuit,” she said.
“Hold it for me until we get on the road. Is everything in the bag?”
“Yes, but I still want to know what’s so funny.”
“You’ll see,” Quinn said, and picked up the suitcase with their joint collection of clothes. Then he eyed her black leather and new hairdo, and his grin widened. “We were definitely on the same wavelength yesterday. You’re gonna fit the new ride just fine.”
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“You will.”
Quinn exited first, casually sweeping the parking lot with a careful gaze before moving aside for her to follow.
Kelly came out the door, then stood on the stoop, waiting to see where Quinn went. When he headed to the monster truck parked near the office, her mouth dropped. She couldn’t decide which was worse, the black and orange flames down the sides or the Confederate flag on the hood. As for the new tires, they’d elevated the clearance of the truck by several feet. She wasn’t sure she would be able to get in without help.
“That’s your truck?”
“Yep. This is it,” he said. “Hop in.”
Kelly walked toward the passenger side, then looked up at the door handle.
“Got a ladder?”
Quinn opened the door, then grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the cab. While Kelly was settling in, he tossed their suitcase in the truck bed then slid behind the wheel. When he fired up the engine, it rumbled lightly. The sound was similar to jet wash before takeoff as he put it in gear.
“Who did this?”
“A guy named Little Ed.”
“Is anything on here legal?”
“I doubt it.”
Kelly laughed. “This just might work after all.”
“That was the plan,” Quinn said, and drove out of the parking lot and back onto the street. A few minutes later they were back on the main highway, still heading north.
Twenty-seven hours later, a green Ford 4 x 4 pulled up in front of Little Ed’s Paint and Body Shop. Little Ed looked up and then started to grin.
“Françoise, you old son of a bitch! Long time no see!”
Françoise Marin was a man who’d lived hard and large and paid often for the price by chalking up a sizable rap sheet. He’d been on the road for the better part of the week in search of his own pot of gold. The picture in his pocket was his ticket to the easy life. All he had to do was find a woman named Kelly Sloan, then make a call.
“Hot damn, Little Ed. You got to cut back on those pork ribs or you’re gonna pop.”
“We all die,” Little Ed said. “What brings you to Tuskeegee?”
“A leaking radiator hose,” Françoise said. “Figured you might be able to help me out.”
“Sure, sure,” Little Ed said. “Business has been pretty slow. Except for a fancy paint job yesterday morning, I ain’t had a customer all month.”
“What? Don’t people around here ever wreck their cars?”
Little Ed grinned. “That ain’t the trouble. Just not too many people around here can afford a car to drive.”
“Yeah, well, then they need to get on the same trail I’m on and their luck might turn,” Françoise said, as he kicked back in an old iron chair and took the cold soda that Little Ed handed him. “Thanks,” he said, and took a long drink.
“You’re welcome,” Little Ed said, as he settled his bulk onto a long iron bench. “Now tell me about this lucky trail you’re following.”
Françoise took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Little Ed.
“Look at this
,” he said.
Little Ed unfolded the paper. He wasn’t a good reader, but the number, two million, quickly jumped out at him. The woman’s face was unfamiliar. He laid the paper aside as he reached for a bag of peanuts. He tore it open and popped a handful into his mouth before looking at Françoise.
“So what’s the deal with this woman? What has she done?”
“Who knows?” Francoise said, then added. “Who cares? She’s worth two million to someone. I intend to find her.”
“Who hired you?” Little Ed asked.
“Oh hell, no one hired me,” Françoise said. “I picked up this paper in Missouri, but I seen others around. There was a bunch of them floating around the Mississippi delta country.”
“You sayin’ that everybody and their hound dog is on the hunt for this woman?”
“I reckon.”
“Damn, Françoise. You ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of being the lucky one, and you know it.”
Françoise shrugged. “Someone’s gotta find her. Why can’t it be me?”
“I guess,” Little Ed said, and dumped the rest of the package of peanuts into his mouth.
Françoise picked up the paper and, as he had countless times in the past few days, stared at the image of Kelly Sloan’s face.
“Reckon she knows about this hunt?” Little Ed asked.
“Probably.”
“If she’s smart, she’ll change her looks.”
“Yeah, I thought of that,” Françoise said. “They say she’s with this guy drivin’ a black Dodge truck. Probably changed that, too, but I’m not ready to quit.”
Little Ed gasped, then choked on the half-eaten nuts in his mouth. Françoise thumped him on the back several times until he caught his breath. When he could talk without coughing, Little Ed grabbed the paper out of Françoise’s hands.
“Let me see that again,” he said.
Suddenly it dawned on Françoise that Little Ed had choked on more than peanuts. He grabbed his old friend by the arm and yanked him around.
“What? What do you know? Tell me, damn it!”
Little Ed looked past Kelly’s picture to the small print beneath it.
Black Dodge truck, then the tag number. At that point he started to grin. He twisted out of Françoise’s grasp and lumbered over to the trash bin, then dumped it onto the floor. Empty beer bottles and pop cans fell out, along with a pile of used grease rags and a handful of disposable face masks that Little Ed used when painting. He kicked the refuse aside and then, with great effort, bent over and picked up the license plate that he’d taken from Quinn’s truck.
He turned around and waved it at Françoise.
“I get a cut of the take.”
Françoise bolted to his feet, his heart thumping. “Where in hell did you get this?”
“Took it off the paint job yesterday. The man wanted a new look to his ride. I gave it to him…for a price.”
Françoise stared, unable to believe what he’d stumbled onto. If it hadn’t been for a worn-out radiator hose, he never would have sidetracked to Tuskeegee.
“Half a million,” Françoise said. “Just tell me what he’s driving.”
“That sounds fair,” Little Ed said, and gave him a description of what he’d done to the truck.
“Help me fix that radiator hose,” Françoise said.
Little Ed grinned. “I’ll do it. You go get yourself something to eat. You gotta keep up your strength. He’s got a whole day’s jump on you.”
An hour later, Françoise was back. Little Ed slammed the hood down on his car and handed him the keys.
“He headed north out of town,” Little Ed said. “Now don’t forget to stay in touch.”
“You got it,” Françoise said, and took off, heading north.
Will Travis’s pager went off just as he was finishing the paperwork on Daryl Connelly’s assault. It did him good to know they’d nailed the perps responsible. He glanced down at the pager, then frowned. It was Houston Medical. He reached for the phone.
A few minutes later he disconnected, then turned around and walked to the window. It was a hot, muggy day in Houston, with the ever-present thunderheads hovering off the coast, promising a chance of rain later in the day.
Daryl Connelly was dead. The news staggered him. He’d thrown a blood clot and died. That suddenly.
He swiped his hands across his face and then cursed. The paperwork he’d just filed on the Latino who called himself Armenio would have to be amended to murder.
“God damn the scum of this earth,” he muttered, and reached for his phone.
Quinn pulled into a truck stop just outside of Mobile, Alabama, then killed the engine before he looked at Kelly.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She nodded, then stretched wearily.
“I think so,” she said. “Either that or I’m faint from the sight of your beautiful face.”
Quinn leaned across the seat and planted a hard, hungry kiss on her lips, then unbuckled her seat belt.
“Get out before I lay you down in the seat of the Fire Monster and have my way with you.”
“Fire Monster?”
“Yeah. I like the sound of it. What do you think?”
“I think you enjoy being a chain-wearing, card-carrying redneck.”
“Honey, I’m from Texas. Except for the chains, society already considers me a redneck. Let’s eat.”
Just as they started to get out, it began to rain.
“Shoot,” Kelly said. “This is going to mess up my hair.”
Quinn eyed the short red and black spikes and grinned. “It’s already messed up,” he said.
“Just for that, you pay for dinner,” she said.
“Don’t I always? Besides, I’ll take it out in loving later.”
They made it inside, laughing as they ran, and quickly took one of the last empty booths. Their rain-soaked entrance into the smokey truck stop café warranted little more than a few curious glances before the other diners went back to their meals.
The waitress appeared, took their orders for burgers and fries, and promised to return with their drinks. Quinn was watching a lingering raindrop rolling down the side of Kelly’s face when he saw a red sports car wheel into the parking lot.
“Somebody’s sure in a hurry,” he said.
Kelly turned around, catching a glimpse of the car as it cruised through the lot. Something about the way the car was moving up and down the rows made her nervous.
“No. I think they’re looking for someone,” she said, and the moment she said it, she turned and looked at Quinn.
“Do you think—”
“Get up,” he said. “Walk out the back door and wait for me. If I don’t show, hitch a ride with one of the truckers and keep moving.”
“No. We do this together or—”
“I’m the one with the gun,” Quinn muttered. “Now do what I said.”
As she was getting up, the car suddenly slid to a stop behind Quinn’s truck.
“It’s too late,” she said, pointing out the window.
“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “How did they find us?”
“Little Ed?”
“Get out, Kelly. Do it now!”
“No one is going to recognize me. I’m going out first. I’ll get behind them, then you come out and head for the truck. There’s only one guy in the car. Surely a DEA agent and a Texas Ranger can handle one bounty hunter.”
Then she headed for the door before he could argue.
“Damn it,” he muttered, tossed some bills down on the table and followed her out the door.
Kelly shifted into a tough-girl stride as she came out of the café. Her head was up, her eyes shifting nervously as she gazed across the parking lot. Then she swiped her hand beneath her nose and combed her hands nervously through her hair, giving whoever might be looking the notion that she was nothing more than a junkie in need of a fix.
From the corner of her eye she saw the driver of the red car look at
her and then look away. It was all she needed to know. She began to walk, moving parallel to Quinn’s truck, then ducking behind an eighteen-wheeler. She squatted down and moved under it, then started working her way back toward the sports car.
Quinn came outside and headed toward his truck. The fact that his gun was under the front seat made him nervous. Two million dollars was enough to make a fool out of anyone. There was always the chance that the driver would shoot first and ask questions later. He palmed the car keys and hit the button on the remote to unlock it. As he did, the driver got out of his car.
“Hey, buddy,” Quinn said. “You’re gonna have to move your car so I can back out.”
Françoise Marin was so high on excitement that he hadn’t even noticed the man was alone. He stepped out from behind his car.
As he did, Quinn saw the gun. He held up his hands and started to talk.
“Come on now, buddy, let’s take it easy here. I’ll give you my money and we’ll call it even. You go your way, I’ll go mine.”
“I don’t want your money,” Françoise said, almost dancing with glee. “I want your woman. Where is she?”
Quinn frowned. “Woman? I don’t have any woman.”
“You’re lying,” Francoise said, and waved the gun toward Quinn’s head. “Talk to me now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“Look, man, I’m not married. Never have been, and I don’t have any woman with me. Look around you, damn it. There’s nothing around here but a bunch of trucks. I went in alone. I came out alone. How much plainer can I get?”
Françoise started to frown. This didn’t make sense. The paper said the woman was with this man.
“What’s your name?” Françoise asked.
“Henry Shepler. What’s yours…Jesse James?”
On the Edge Page 29