Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

He screamed and let go of the wheel.

“Ethan!”

He barely heard her voice. He was drowning, his lungs unable to draw in air. His scream continued, he was helpless. He couldn’t stop. They were killing him …

Real pain cut through the vision. His mouth shut. Her hands were on the steering wheel, keeping the truck in their lane. His foot was on the accelerator flat to the floor. They rapidly approached the rear of a minivan.

He glanced at the odometer. Death at 110 miles per hour. Yes. Sixty more seconds and splat, all over the desert. Him and her, gone instantly. Just. Like. That.

She turned the wheel and put them into the eastbound lane, barely missing a collision with the minivan. The car they passed honked at them. Ethan glanced over, saw the kids in the back of the car. The infant seat.

They didn’t care about him. Not when he was imprisoned, not when he was freed. He was nobody.

His foot eased up on the accelerator-100 mph … 90 mph … 80 mph. He hovered between seventy-five and eighty miles per hour and only then did Karin take her hands off the wheel.

Biting his lip-he didn’t notice how hard until he tasted blood-he glanced at her. She’d dyed her hair again. When? She was dark blond when they’d met. Then brown. Now … blond. How had she done that? When? In the motel? He didn’t remember. She was prettier as a blond. Softer. As a brunette, she looked unreal, like everything he saw, as if in a dream. Now she was crisper. Real. Not a figment of his imagination.

Or was she? Had he made her up? Where had she come from?

“Let’s get breakfast,” she said. “There’s a diner on the other side of the California border. Quiet. Thirty minutes.”

He shrugged. If she was real, she didn’t understand him. If she was unreal, he didn’t understand himself. He would have laughed, but deep sadness overwhelmed him. Tears burned his eyes. She should love him, but she didn’t. She said she did, but she was using him. The thought came to him so clearly, he had a flash of sanity. For one minute he remembered who he was deep down, who he had been before. It was like watching the Wizard of Oz change from black and white to Technicolor. Vivid, clear, awesome … frightening.

For him, horrifying.

He blinked rapidly, the color giving way to shades of gray, then to nothing. Nothing but the steering wheel and the endless road.

“Ethan, it’s okay.”

He drove in silence. What would she do if he tied her down and really hurt her? He knew things he hadn’t shown her. Places on her body that would bring her such pain she would beg him to kill her. And he wouldn’t. He would let her suffer as she let him suffer. Alive.

“I’m sorry, “ Ethan said.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” She touched him like a lover, fingers soft on his skin. She kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be okay. Exit up ahead. You need a good meal.”

He followed her orders and stopped at the roadside diner in Blythe. Ethan didn’t talk as they ordered. The woman-Ethan wasn’t quite sure what her name was- talked about nothing while they ate.

“When are we going to be in Santa Barbara?” he interrupted.

“Five, six hours. Depends on traffic.”

“Okay.”

She said, “You have to be extra careful. We’re almost done. What if the minivan driver you almost hit took down our plates? Called the cops? We’re too close. I can’t risk screwing this up.”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. “Don’t hate me.”

The woman touched his hand. Ethan didn’t feel it, but he saw her fingers rub his palm. Why didn’t he feel them?

She’s not real, right?

“I don’t hate you,” she said. “I love you, you know that.”

He nodded.

As they were leaving the diner, a man approached. He was short, stocky, balding, and wore small wire-rimmed glasses. The stranger pushed Ethan in the chest. Ethan took a step back and looked down at the man. “Hey.”

“You should have your license revoked!” the man yelled.

“I’m so sorry.” Ethan looked at the blond standing next to him, apologizing profusely. Did he know her? Of course. Yes.

“My husband has been driving all night,” she said, “and I was supposed to keep him awake, but I fell asleep. I know we should have pulled over, but my mom …”

Tears slid down her cheeks. Ethan had never seen her cry. She looked like a sad angel. His angel. He wanted to protect her, take care of her. He put his arm around her. She put her face in his shoulder.

The man glared at them, but stepped back. His wife, a pretty woman devoid of makeup, took his arm. “Don’t make a scene, Ned. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” the blond wept.

“Where are the kids?”

“Eddie is with them. It’s okay.” She smiled nervously at Ethan. “We’re sorry to bother you.”

The blond said-What was her name? Carrie? Annie? Kelly? No, nothing like that. Ethan couldn’t remember. She was a stranger.

“No, I’m sorry. Mom had a heart attack yesterday and we’ve been driving all night from Houston. I have to see her before-” She took a deep breath.

Ethan thought her mom was already dead. She wasn’t a stranger. He squeezed his temples. His head pounded like he had a hangover.

“Let’s go, honey. The coffee will keep us going until we reach San Francisco.”

“I thought we were going to Santa Barbara.”

She squeezed his arm so tightly he would have yelped, except it felt too good.

“San Francisco.” She shook her head and said to the strangers, “My mom moved last year. John never liked her, and-” More tears rolled out. “John, I need to go. Please.”

Who was John?

She pulled Ethan out of the restaurant and back to the truck. She had the keys.

“Get in the backseat and close your eyes. You are screwing everything up!”

Ethan obeyed. There was a blanket on the floor. He pulled it around him. He was so cold.

He fell asleep before they reached the interstate.

Megan called J. T. Caruso at seven Thursday morning while Hans was on the phone with Quantico and Father Francis was celebrating Mass in the church. At that moment, she didn’t know where Jack Kincaid was, and that was probably a good thing. She was too aware of his presence, of the way he looked at her, of his quiet arrogance and intense loyalty. The latter two reminded her too much of the men she respected more than anyone, her father and her brother. She’d instantly felt an odd kinship with the mercenary; yet at the same time was acutely aware that he was not related to her.

“It’s five o’clock in the morning,” J.T. answered unceremoniously.

“I know.” She’d forgotten about the time difference. “It’s important, and I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Now you really owe me one. I’m going to be off-stride for the rest of the day.”

She doubted that. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

She filled him in on what she knew-and what she didn’t know. “I need information on Jack Kincaid, Francis Cardenas, and Jerry Jefferson,” she concluded. “I need to make sure that what I know is accurate.”

“Don’t you have paid staff to run background checks? I know budget cuts are hard, but I didn’t realize how bad.”

“Please, J.T. The wheels of the bureaucracy grind slowly. I need this information before I retire.”

He let out a brief laugh. “Kincaid. Common name. Jack. Even more common. Jerry Jefferson? Really, Meg. I’m good, but I need a little more.”

She looked at the notes she’d written when Hans had filled her in on the plane trip down the night before. “Jack Kincaid, thirty-nine, father is Patrick Kincaid, Senior, retired colonel, U.S. Army. His brother Dr. Dillon Kincaid is a civilian consultant for the FBI at Quantico. Jack enlisted when he was eighteen, based in Texas- Army Rangers. I don’t have anything about his service, except that he went to Fort Bragg at some point and trained for Delta Force. He left ten or so years ago and is now a soldier for hire based in Hidalgo, Texas.”