Page 82 of The Vigilante's Lover
Not Jax’s face.
I scream.
14: Jax
We hit a storm over New Mexico. Lightning flashes in the distance and the helicopter jerks and shudders.
“Sorry about the turbulence,” the pilot calls back. “Doing my best to avoid the storm but you can’t dodge everything.”
“That’s quite all right,” I say. “How far out are we?”
“We’re about 50 miles from the heliport, or about 20 minutes,” he says.
“At the airport?” I hope this is not the case. Airports mean increased visibility.
“No,” Colt says. “It’s a private ’port we use. Less paparazzi.”
“Good.”
Up ahead I can see the lights of Albuquerque glimmering in the dark. Like many US cities in the Southwest, the edges of its sprawl stand in stark contrast to the empty land surrounding it. Particularly at night, when the city streets pulse with streetlights. The late hour means few cars are out, and fewer eyes.
After a few minutes, we move beyond the storm. The chopper swoops low and circles a large landing pad illuminated by bright lights. I can see two black sedans parked beyond the safety perimeter. Theirwindows are dark but running lights gleam along their edges.
The helicopter sets down with a gentle bump. The pilot powers down the engine, pausing briefly to shake my hand.
I thank Colt.
“Take care of yourself,” he says. “Let me know if we can help.”
“Will do,” I say. I pop open the door and duck my head against the wash of the helicopter’s blades as I climb out.
The door of one sedan opens and a man in a simple dress shirt and slacks climbs out. He stands by the car as I approach, then holds out his hand when I get close.
“Mr. De Luca!” he calls. “The Cure sends his regards.” He takes my hand and pumps it with vigor.
“Be sure to pass along my gratitude,” I say.
“Of course,” says the man and passes over the key fob. “Sorry it’s not as fancy as what you’re used to.”
“It’s fine,” I reply as I give the sedan a quick onceover. It’s a late model Infiniti, an upgraded package from the looks of it. Far from my first choice, but a good one for avoiding undue attention. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
The man gives a hearty laugh. “From what I hear, sir, you are about as far from a beggar as one can get.”
I climb into the driver’s seat. “I’m glad some people still have nice things to say about me.” I give the man a quick nod and close the door.
The interior and dash are decidedly lower tech than I’m used to, almost spartan in comparison to a Vigilante car. But it will do.
“Hello, Infiniti,” I try, and am greeted by a helpful chirp as the dash lights up. “Navigate to Nashville, Tennessee.”
“Calculating,” replies a pleasant female voice. A second later a pale arrow superimposes itself on the windshield. I pull out and follow the car’s directions. I note that it has a civilian version of the type of auto-drive you used to only find in Vigilante cars. It’s not as sophisticated and is tied to the navigation, but it’s something. The Cure gets all the goodstuff.
The small heliport is situated too close to downtown for my taste, and I blaze down a narrow street between two tall buildings, the sort I would normally avoid at all cost. Thankfully the Vigilantes don’t know where I am.
But I’m only a few blocks down when a car suddenly pulls out of a drive in front of me, blocking the road. I hit the brakes and instinctively check my rearview. A second car has done the same behind me, boxing me in. Damn it. I drove straight into a trap. It’s the perfect spot for an ambush maneuver like this.
I have no doubt who is in the cars. With no means of tracking me, the Vigilantes must have guessed I was on one of The Cure’s helicopters and simply had to lie in wait to confirm. For all I know, the driver who met me contacted them. I’ll have to let The Cure know about this little violation of his protected status.
Once I figure out how to escape this.
