Page 89 of Risky Passion

Alice and I used to joke about this part of the highway.

“I bet there are some bodies in there,” she would say, her voice laced with that sly humor of hers. She always knew how to make the darkness feel lighter.

Of course, she’d known full well therewerebodies in there.

The monotony of the highway stretched my nerves taut. Every car that came near felt like a threat. Every truck that loomed in my mirrors felt like a shadow chasing me.

I needed an out.

Up ahead, a small courier truck veered off the highway, taking an exit ramp markedMidgee, Local Traffic Only.

My pulse quickened. Perfect.

I flicked on the blinker and eased onto the ramp, gripping the steering wheel so tight my arthritis reminded me that I was too damn old for this shit.

A new problem hit me. How was I going to get Alice out of this trunk and move her into the next car?

I stayed back, keeping the courier truck in sight as it veered off the highway and onto a stretch of smaller, less-traveled roads.

My mind raced ahead, piecing together the plan even as the doubts gnawed at me. I wasn’t strong enough to move Alice on my own. My knees were shot, my hands barely worked on a good day, and this wasn’t a good day. I needed help and that fucking pissed me off.

The truck slowed as it passed through a quiet stretch of scrubland, no houses, no lights. Just an endless sprawl of bush and dirt roads. My pulse quickened. Now or never.

I scanned the dashboard until I found the switch I was looking for. A flick later, and the blue and red lights on the roof burst to life, painting the trees in frantic flashes of color.

The courier truck’s brake lights flared, and the vehicle rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

Exhaling sharply, I eased the cruiser to a stop behind the truck. “Here we go, Alice. Wish me luck.”

Luck. Luck wasn’t something we believed in. Not with the lives we’d lived.

I grabbed the pistol from the passenger seat, keeping it low against my thigh as I stepped out of the car.

The driver rolled down his window, and his pale face strobed blue and red in the flashing lights. He had a big gray beard and deep lines etched into his skin, the kind of lines life carved when it had been cruel for too many years.

Bloody hell. He’s older than me.

“Step out of the vehicle,” I called, keeping my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

He hesitated, his hands hovering near the steering wheel. “Officer, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

I pulled the gun higher, tapping it against the window frame. “I said, step out of the vehicle. Now.”

“Jesus.” His hands shot into the air, trembling as he climbed out of the truck. Each movement was slow, deliberate, like he was riddled with arthritis.

“Please, don’t shoot.” His voice cracked. “I’ve got grandkids. Five of ’em. And dogs. Two dogs. And a budgie. His name’s Snowy.”

“Shut up,” I snapped, though the desperation in his voice twisted something in me like a massive knot I didn’t have time to untangle.

I nodded toward the side of the courier truck. “Open the truck.”

He blinked, confused, before shuffling toward the side door. His legs were bowed so badly it was a wonder he could stand, and his hands trembled as he fumbled with the handle.

“If you’re robbing me, you picked the wrong truck.” His voice was thick with fear. “I already made my deliveries.”

“I’m not robbing you,” I said flatly. “Just open it.”

The door slid open with a metallic clang, revealing the hollow, empty cargo hold inside.

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