Page 62 of Silent Past

Sheila stared at her father, whose eyes willed her to leave and go after the Irishman. She hated everything about this, and she knew that if she left now and her father didn't make it, she would never forgive herself.

If, on the other hand, she let the Irishman get away, which might prevent her from ever getting to the bottom of what happened to her mother…

"Okay," she said, gazing hard into her father's eyes. "But don't you dare die on me."

He blinked hard in acknowledgment. She squeezed her father's hand once, then rose. The unconscious gunman's keys lay where they'd fallen during the fight.

"Out back," Gabriel croaked. "Car…"

Sheila grabbed the keys, already moving.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Sheila burst out of the farmhouse into blinding light. The Explorer sat behind the building, its engine still warm. She threw herself behind the wheel, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.

Gravel sprayed as she accelerated toward the access road. Dust still hung in the air from the Irishman's escape, marking his trail like bread crumbs. He had maybe a two-minute head start.

The Explorer's suspension protested as she hit the main road at speed, tires fighting for grip on the turn. She spotted his vehicle far ahead—a black SUV cresting a rise before disappearing.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. This man had ordered her mother's death. Had nearly killed her father. Had spent decades protecting a system of corruption that had let drug traffickers walk free, sent innocent people to prison, and lined the pockets of corrupt officials with millions in seized assets—destroying countless lives in the process.

He wasn't getting away. Not this time.

The road unwound before her like a serpent, all blind curves and sudden rises. The Explorer's engine screamed as she pushed it harder, eating up the distance between them. Her pursuit training kicked in—anticipating his moves, watching for opportunities.

There—his SUV appeared again, closer now. She'd gained ground on that series of curves, her competition driving giving her an edge. He was good, but she was better.

The Irishman's vehicle swerved suddenly, taking a forestry road that cut up into the mountains. Sheila followed. Trees closed in on both sides, branches scraping against metal as the road narrowed.

Her quarry was getting desperate. These roads were a maze, easy to get lost in. But they also had fewer escape routes. If she could just stay with him...

The SUV fishtailed on a sharp turn, kicking up a cloud of dust and pine needles. Sheila pressed the accelerator harder, closing the gap. She could see him now through the rear window, his face in the mirror as he realized she was gaining.

The road grew steeper, rougher. The chase had become a game of skill and nerve, each curve a test of who would break first.

Sheila didn't intend to break at all.

The chase wound higher into the mountains, each turn bringing them closer to disaster. The Irishman took a curve too fast, his SUV's back end sliding toward the drop-off. Rocks clattered into the void, but somehow he maintained control.

Sheila stayed with him. She knew these roads—had driven them countless times during searches and pursuits. The Irishman might be professional, but this was her territory.

Up ahead, the road split. One branch continued climbing while the other curved back toward the valley. The Irishman's brake lights flashed as he approached the fork, trying to decide.

Sheila saw her chance.

She accelerated hard, closing the final distance between them. The Irishman started to take the higher road, then changed his mind at the last second. The maneuver cost him speed and stability.

Their vehicles touched—just a tap, metal kissing metal at forty miles per hour. The Irishman's SUV shuddered, its tires losing purchase on loose gravel. He overcorrected, fighting for control.

The guard rail never stood a chance.

Metal screamed as his vehicle broke through, but instead of plunging into the void, it rolled down a steep embankment. The SUV tumbled once, twice, before coming to rest against a stand of pines thirty feet below the road.

Sheila slammed the Explorer into the park and drew her recovered weapon. Steam rose from the Irishman's crumpled vehicle, its windows shattered. No movement inside.

She worked her way down the slope carefully, boots sliding on screen. The SUV's frame had buckled from the impact, its doors crushed. But the driver's side window was completely gone.

Blood marked the shattered steering wheel. The Irishman was nowhere to be seen.

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