Page 11 of Factory Thief

“Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth. Listen, Jack, and listen well. If I or the people I work for wanted you dead, then you’d be dead. I’m here to keep you alive and free, believe it or not, so how about you stop fucking with me?”

“I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Why else would I break you out of prison, if not to keep you alive and free?”

“I can think of several reasons. A billionaire who needs an organ transplant, or members of that poor woman’s family who want revenge and think a fifteen-year stretch is too lenient—”

“Oh, stop.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Fine, we’ll go back to the way it was before, with me threatening to shoot you if you try to run again. If you’ve caught your breath, let’s head back to the parking lot and get the fuck out of here before they realize you’re not in your yard.”

“If they haven’t already.”

She nods curtly. I track down the hill ahead of her. I can feel her eyes boring into my back. Victoria herds me to a pickup truck.

“You know how to drive, Jack?”

“You’re asking me? This in California, you know, the state where you have to drive to get anywhere?”

“Good point.” She tosses me the keys. “You drive. I’ll make sure you don’t get any stupid ideas.”

Victoria brandishes her gun. I get behind the wheel and sigh.

“Well, how could I possibly refuse an invitation like that?”

VICTORIA

Ikeep a close watch on Jack as he pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway. His gaze darts over to me as we approach a T-junction.

“Which way?”

“East.”

“What?”

I sigh. “Right. Take a right.”

“How did you know it was east?”

“Years of land navigation training. We’re on the west coast, if the coast is to the left, then—”

“Right is east. I got it.” He licks his lips nervously as he makes the turn. “Look, could you maybe not point that thing at me while we’re rolling? If I hit a bump or a pothole I don’t want to get shot.”

I flick the safety on, but keep it pointed his way. “I can take the safety off in an eyeblink. Lots of practice.”

“I believe you.”

I don’t relax until we’re thirty miles from the prison complex. I’ve trained myself to ignore physical discomforts as part of the job, but my wet clothes and salt-crusted hair and skin are driving me to distraction. What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower.

“So, this organization you work for—”

“The Factory.”

“Right. That one. What does a foundation that takes care of kids want with me? Why go through all this trouble to bust me out of prison?”

My face crosses with a sneer. I remind myself this man is a murderer.

“I have no idea, but whatever it is they want with you, you deserve way worse. How could you stab somebody’s grandmother thirty times?”

He stiffens up, hands tightening on the wheel.

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