Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

Her nervous fingers found the valve of the front tire and removed the cap. Her thighs were burning by the time she duckwalked the length of the car and around the back of it, then up to the right front tire. She twisted off that cap. The fourth and last one was more stubborn than the others. She was sweating and the pads of her fingers were rubbed raw from the effort by the time she got it off.

Then, holding all four in a tight fist, she stood up.

In the same instant, the door of one of the rooms was pulled open.

Instinctually she whipped her head around.

Sundance was framed in the open doorway. He was barefoot, still wearing his trousers, but he had replaced the dress shirt he’d worn into the nightclub with a white T-shirt. The tail of it was neatly tucked into his waistband. It was a ridiculous thing to note at a time like this, but irrationally it flashed through her mind how silly and uncomfortable that looked.

He was holding a plastic ice bucket, which he dropped the instant he spotted her, and reached for a shoulder holster that wasn’t there, shouting, “Hold it!”

She did the opposite. She turned and ran for her life. She expected to see Raley waiting anxiously inside the gray sedan across the boulevard. But neither he nor the car was where she’d left them.

Behind her, she heard pounding, and figured Sundance was beating on his partner’s door. He yelled, “Get out here!”

She didn’t stop to look back but ran headlong toward the street, not even knowing in which direction to go. Where was Raley? She had told him to drive away if anything happened, but she really hadn’t expected him to desert her.

She thought she heard one of the men call her name, but she didn’t need to look back to know that they were hotfooting it and closing in fast. She could hear the slaps of bare feet on pavement, their huffing breaths, cursing.

She leaped off the sidewalk directly into the path of an oncoming car and managed to jump back only a nanosecond away from being struck. The driver blasted his horn. It deafened her to the approach of the car that screeched to a stop within inches behind her, nearly shaving the jeans off her butt.

“Britt!”

She whirled around. Raley had pulled the car between her and the two men. Seeing the pistol aimed at them through the open driver’s window, they skidded to a stop. “Back up or you’re dead!” Raley shouted. They started yelling at him, but he was gunning the motor of the sedan to a roar while keeping his foot on the brake.

Britt scrambled into the passenger seat. Before she had even closed the door, Raley lifted his foot from the brake pedal and the car shot forward like a racehorse bounding out of the gate. He bumped over the curb and sped across the opposing lanes. Her teeth slammed together when he hit the median at about eighty miles an hour, then they were speeding away in the outside lane, their rear end fishtailing for several yards before Raley could bring the car under full control.

She glanced back. The men were running across the parking lot toward their now disabled car. Butch had been caught with his pants down. She got a fleeting glimpse of boxer shorts and well-toned legs before Raley took a sharp right turn that put the Holiday Inn out of sight. He turned left at the next opportunity, then another right.

He was cussing a blue streak.

Adrenaline pumped through her. His erratic driving was pitching her from one side of the seat to the other. She managed to fasten her seat belt, saying, “You can slow down. They can’t come after us. Even if they try, their tires will go flat before they can catch us.” She opened her fist. Her fingernails had gouged four half-moons out of her palm, but on it lay the four valve caps.

“What in the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of slowing them down, preventing them from coming after us.”

“They didn’t know we were there! You could have got shot!”

“But I didn’t!”

“Shit!” He hit the steering wheel hard.

In his present mood, arguing was futile, so she said nothing more.

For anyone who may have wanted to follow them, it would have been hopeless. Even she had lost all sense of direction by the time they crossed the Ravenel Bridge. A few miles later, they arrived at the RV park.

Raley wheeled their car behind the cabin, got out, and stormed toward the door, but he held it open for her, keeping an angry bead on her as she walked toward him. Once she had cleared the door, he slammed it shut behind her and bolted it.

Coming around, he bore down on her. “That was a dumb, reckless stunt, Britt.”

“It’ll slow them down.”

“Granted.”

“So it wasn’t dumb at all, was it?”

“It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“I think it was. Anyway, it felt good to get back at them.”

“Felt good? They could have killed you!”

He looked ready to do that himself. A vein in his forehead was pulsing. His hands were clenched at his sides. In her defense, she said, “I needed to do something for myself, Raley. I feel dependent and useless, and I hate that. I needed to act. I’m tired of relying on-”

“Me?”

“Yes! On anybody. I’m not used to it. I’ve always taken care of myself.”

“Then be my guest.” He unlocked the door and yanked it open.

She stared into the rectangle of darkness, broken only by the flashing red neon arrow with Vacancy spelled out along its shaft that hovered above the park’s office. He’d called her bluff, and now she felt rather foolish. If she left, where would she go and how would she get there? She was without resources.

Her gaze moved from the flickering sign back to Raley’s face. His lips were white with anger. They barely moved when he said, “Already one woman died on account of me. I’d rather avoid that happening again.”

“You should have thought of that before kidnapping me.”

With an expletive, he slammed the door closed, bolted it, then plowed his fingers through his hair.

“That’s right,” she said, “don’t forget that it was you who dragged me into this mess.”

He lowered his hands from his head. Looking at her hard, he said in a soft, measured tone, “Wrong. You got into this mess by falling for Jay Burgess’s charm.”

She held his stare for several beats, then strode past him and snatched up the plastic bag that contained the clothes he’d bought her. Which was particularly galling at the moment. She carried the package with her into the bathroom and closed the door, making sure he heard the click of the lock.

When she came out ten minutes later, showered and shampooed, he was sitting on the end of his bed, staring into the TV. The sound was muted. He looked up at her. “Finished?”

She gave him an aloof nod.

He got up and, taking his things with him, went into the bathroom and closed the door. She lay down on her bed and tried to get interested in the soundless sitcom rerun, but after a few minutes got up and turned off the set, then moved restlessly around the cabin.

They had so little with them, there was nothing to tidy up, nothing to read except for the out-of-date telephone directory, a dusty copy of the Gideon Bible, and Raley’s files, and she had reviewed them so many times she had practically memorized the material. There was nothing to do except wait for morning, when they would drive to Columbia and Raley would accuse the attorney general of being a felon. And then what?

Less than a week ago, she’d had a great job, celebrity status, the respect of her peers, friends she could count on. Now she was a journalist whose credibility would forever be in doubt. She was the target of powerful men who would murder their own friend to keep their criminal secret intact. And she was a fugitive who, when caught, would face an indictment for murder. What could the future possibly hold for her? If she survived to have a future at all.