Page 14 of Nash

Silence fills the air while I aim for the next bridge. The Ravenel Bridge. It’s the third longest cable-stayed bridge in the Western Hemisphere and our only way to safety. I know what to do with the Mercedes chasing feet behind us.

“Who are you with?” Axel hopes I’ll say “Alena.” That I’ve secured her.

“Vale Monroe,” I answer, and he’s silent again, adding it up.

“Who is it?” He’s asking about our friends, the ones I warned him about earlier.

“Same as your office. They followed me home.”

I can’t go into details. Details Vale can’t know. It’s for her own good.

“Your plan?” Axel asks. He’ll call the others. They’ll go to their second locations until we can get more intel.

“Lose this tail, drop this van, then secure my asset.”

“Yourasset?” Vale scoffs, but I whip my glare at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Call when it’s done,” Axel replies, then hangs up.

“Your fuckingasset?” Vale starts. “What in the hell is going on? Who’s chasing us? Why do you have a gun, and why did it sound like you’re best friends with Tony Soprano and Co.?”

“So, being a good girl. It’s done?” I shake my head. “Should’ve known. I’ve had sneezes that lasted longer.”

She doesn’t answer. She studies my gun, then my face, my real one, ready for murder. “Oh my god,” she sighs in shock, “you’re mafia in a minivan.”

“Mafia don’t drive minivans,” I assure her as I race up the ramp to the four wide lanes of the high bridge crossing the wide Cooper River.

Thankfully, it’s one a.m. on a Monday morning. There are only a few other cars, and ours, being chased by a black Mercedes.

For a rare moment, Vale’s silent.

Call the CIA. I found their next recruit. She’s waterboarding my profile, interrogating my new image.

Then, because God hates me, Vale starts clapping. She’s smart and quite proud of herself. She’s figured it out, but unfortunately, she’s also a snarky smartass when she’s scared, and in the past, I adored it.

I’d piss her off for entertainment.

But not now.

“Let’s all applaud,” she says. “Let’s show some warm Southern hospitality to the mafia in Charleston becausethat’swhy you drive a daddy minivan, not an I-got-a-little-dick sports car or a black SUV that screams felony offender. No, that’d be too obvious. And that’s why you look like Poindexter when really … you’re a Dexter. You murder people. You’re not a geeky accountant or an uptight dad. You’re a hitman! You’re amademan!”

I recheck the rear-view mirror. Then, I slide into the outside lane, preparing for my maneuver. I don’t care that Vale’s outed me. I’ll deal with it later.

“Aren’t you?” Or now, goddammit. “Aren’t you mafia, Mr. Allen? Or some kind of organized crime because you have a gun, too many muscles, a sudden explosion of ink, and too much money to be?—”

“I wish you were allergic to words.”

“They’re my weapons.”

“Holster them.” I accelerate, thankful for this engine. It’s maxed out. “Better yet, silence them.”

It’s hard controlling the vehicle at this speed. We’re going eighty-nine as Vale deadpans, “Twenty bucks says we die.”

I can’t help it. I fucking smile as I slow down.

“What are you doing?” she shrieks. “Don’t listen to me! Don’t slow down now! Don’t let them?—”

“Shut up, Vale!” I boom.Here we go.

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