Catherine Coulter: Split Second

“What are you smiling about? I shot you, you moron! Come on, move! You don’t drive, then you die here, your choice.”

Slowly, Coop got to his feet. He could function, but he knew it wasn’t enough. At least she’d proved she didn’t want to kill him yet; she wanted to use him as a hostage, or at least as a driver. But it was up to him to stop her, there was no one else to do it. “I’ll drive.”

“Thought you would. Let’s go, haven’t got all day, now, do we? In a couple of hours, we’ll stop at a motel, get some sleep.”

When they reached the highway again, Coop saw a flash of black. It was a Porsche, Savich’s Porsche.

Sherlock saw them merging into traffic ahead of them. “That’s Coop. In the Dodge!”

Savich quickly eased the Porsche behind a big SUV. “I see them. We’ll hang back, wait for Coop to stop again.”

Suddenly a silver North Carolina Highway Patrol cruiser, with its distinctive wide black stripe and State Trooper logo, pulled out around them and sped forward.

“Not good, Dillon. I’ll bet they’ve spotted Kirsten.”

The cruiser was a missile headed right for the Dodge. They saw the officer holding his radio in his hand, speaking into it, his partner, his head out the window, probably shouting back that the license plate was too dirty to read.

Savich accelerated. Drivers all around them were staring now, rubbernecking, and traffic was slowing down.

The cruiser’s siren came on.

Sherlock got on her cell to the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

They watched, helpless, as the Dodge sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose the highway patrol. Good luck with that. They could see Coop clearly now, and Kirsten, looking back at the cruiser, then at Coop. They saw her waving a gun, pointing it back toward them. Then, suddenly, the highway patrolman in the passenger seat began shooting.

Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, and all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

He’d never have a better chance.

Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.

She lurched away, hit her head against the glove compartment, and was thrown back again, her head bouncing off the seat. Then she slumped over, unconscious.

Coop brought the car to a sliding stop in the middle of the field. He saw his SIG on the floor where Kirsten had dropped it. He was looking for her gun when he heard the highway patrol cruiser pull to a stop right behind him, heard the cops shouting at him.

He had to respond or they’d probably shoot him. The pain in his side ripped through him, but he ignored it and shoved his door open, one eye on Kirsten. He raised his hands.

“You the FBI agent?”

“Yes. Cooper McKnight. I hit her; Kirsten Bolger’s in the car, unconscious.”

Coop was never so happy in his life to see Savich and Sherlock cruising toward them, Savich careful to keep the Porsche between the mown rows of tobacco stalks, so as not to scratch up that perfect paint job.

“Don’t shoot at the Porsche. They’re FBI!”

Coop waved, then turned to watch one of the cops answer his cell, nod, then say, “You sure she’s out of it, Agent? Hey, what’s wrong? Geez, you’re shot!”

Coop waved a hand and looked back into the car. He couldn’t believe it, but Kirsten was gone. He ran around the front of the car and saw her crawling through the rows of tobacco stalks several dozen feet from him. “She’s headed toward that house! Kirsten, stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Kirsten looked back at him over her shoulder, lurched to her feet, and started running toward the house in the distance.

Coop took off after her, his side forgotten, two highway patrolmen behind him, both firing toward her. He heard Savich shout, “Coop, we’ll try to cut her off before she gets to that house! Don’t hesitate—bring her down if you can.”

Yeah, Coop thought, breathing hard, feeling his blood slick on his skin. It was enough, it was more than enough. He paused, aimed his SIG, and fired.

Allenby Motel

Lucy and Miranda stared at the smashed electric clock on the ancient rag rug that lay next to the small nightstand.

“You didn’t break it twice, did you?” Lucy asked, though she almost yelled out with relief.

Miranda was shaking her head back and forth. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened. Aunt Helen swore to me it would happen for me. I’m her direct relation, just as you are. She’s my father’s sister; it has to work, it should!”

Miranda grabbed a pillow off the bed and hurled it against the door. She yelled, “SEFYLL!”

Please don’t let it work, please don’t let it.

Both women stared at the pillow, still on the floor against the motel room’s door.

Lucy nearly wept with relief, though like Miranda, she didn’t understand why nothing had happened. Thank you, Sweet Lord, she didn’t shoot me.

The ring is cold for Miranda.

Miranda was moaning deep in her throat, pacing, cursing, shaking the ring, saying “SEFYLL” over and over.

Lucy had the rope loose enough now to slip her hand out of it. Miranda still held the gun in one hand, the ring in the other. But she wasn’t paying attention. Lucy knew she had to act, with the ring or without it, or Miranda would likely kill her out of jealousy and despair.

She whirled to face Lucy. “It has to work for me, Aunt Helen promised me, so that means I’m not doing something right. Tell me, Lucy. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Lucy stared at her. “Miranda, when I hold the ring, when it lies against my throat, it feels warm. Very warm. I don’t do anything different than you did.”

Miranda said slowly, “You said it was cold for you, very cold.”

“It seems I’m not such a crappy liar after all.”

Miranda howled. She flung her tote against the far wall, screamed, “SEFYLL!” Miranda’s tote remained on the floor.

Lucy said slowly, “I can think of only one reason the ring doesn’t work for you, Miranda. It’s not meant to.”

Miranda stared at her. She began shaking her head back and forth. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible. I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!” Miranda ran toward her, waving the ring, beyond herself, beyond reason. “I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!”