Page 67 of Ride Hard
Chaser
“What do you mean,no one’s ever saved your lifebefore?”
I glanced over my shoulder to where Sloane was sitting beside the road. There was a scrape on her forehead, but there weren’t any other noticeable injuries onher.
I was rifling through the black sedan, trying to find anything that would help, but I wasn’t having much luck. Two tires were blown out, the back axle was cracked, and the fuel tank had a bullet hole in it. Luckily, it hadn’t blown the carup.
We weren’t driving itanywhere.
I found nothing useful on the bodies, either. These assholes had really upped their faceless men routine. Their fingerprints had been burned off. That wascommitment.
“Chaser?”
I narrowed my eyes and snatched the tire iron out of thetrunk.
“Aren’t you worried another car will find us?” she asked, changing tactics. “If someone finds us with those bodies, we’rescrewed.”
Striding over to the twisted wreck that used to be my car, I shoved the end of the tire iron under the lip of the trunk and heaved. Metal groaned, then gave way as it opened. Our bags tumbled out and collided with the road, the sound of something smashing causing Sloane to scramble to herfeet.
“That better not be my laptop,” sheexclaimed.
I tossed Sloane her bag, and it landed at her feet with athud.
“If you’ve got a sweater in there, you’d better put it on,” I commanded. “It gets cold out here atnight.”
She rifled through her bag, wailing when she saw the screen of her laptop was shattered. I narrowed my eyes but said nothing. This was her way of coping after she’d blown that guy’s head off. It wasn’t easy killing a man, and even though Sloane was one tough woman, nothing was more confronting than taking alife.
Watching her take out a cardigan, I picked up my own bag and slung it over my shoulder, making sure the gun I’d taken from the heavies was tucked in the waistband of my jeans. When Sloane stood, I handed her back hergun.
“I…” she began, staring at my outstretchedhand.
“Take it,” I said. “You wanted it a week ago, so here itis.”
“I don’tthink…”
“You could’ve shot me,” I declared. “But youdidn’t.”
She pursed her lips and stared at the gun. After a moment, she reached out and tookit.
“It’s a hard thing,” I whispered. “The firsttime.”
“Hopefully, the last,” she muttered before setting out down theroad.
If she were right about her father’s intentions, then it would be the first of many. If she wanted to protect herself from what was coming, then she couldn’thesitate.
Watching her walk away from the wreck and the bodies, Isighed.
“If I didn’t feel like hurling, I might like it out here,” she declared, her voice loud in thesilence.
“Are you feeling sick?” I asked, catching up toher.
Stopping, I grasped her arm. She didn’t fight me when I placed my palm against her forehead. She was a littlewarm.
“It’snothing.”
“You feelwarm.”
“If I were going to die from internal bleeding, I would already be dead,” she stated. “And if I broke any bones, I’d feel it by now. I gotlucky.”
