But the only chance she had.

  A coin flip she chose the right road out of town.

  Another coin flip that she'd be able to go fast enough without being pulled over to find the bastard.

  But one way or another, she felt that same surge of lacing adrenaline.

  She couldn't help but drum her hands against the steering wheel, letting loose a sudden scream of exhilaration.

  And this time, it had nothing to do with damn pills.

  As she sped forward, she paused long enough to lift her phone. She needed to warn Jamie. Needed to text Saul.

  As her phone lifted, though, she frowned at the call she'd missed.

  Commander Grayson.

  She let out a huff of air. Why was he calling her? Just checking in?

  No time to muse on it, though.

  She raced through the small-town streets, blowing a stop sign, angry red taillights glaring at the rough asphalt.

  As she called Jamie, she kept her head on a swivel, glancing side to side, looking for any sign of the truck. Only one hotel in the area, though. No, she doubted the man with the golden chain was going to stay local.

  Especially not after the ruckus back at the station.

  No, men like that—Men who exuded control—they retreated to places where they had control.

  Fifty-fifty, she'd chosen the right road.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She'd passed two police cars as she sped twenty miles over the speed limit, racing down the highway. Both had been heading in the opposite direction, speeding towards the police station.

  One had even slowed, beginning to wobble as if wanting to turn and go after her, but then had thought better of it and continued down the highway in the opposite direction.

  She watched the flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror, feeling a slow surge of relief.

  Jamie was warned. Doors were locked and windows were closed. Her mother was going to take the weekend off from Sunday school. On top of it, she'd also sent the audio recording to Agent Brady. She hadn't had time to fill him in on any of the details, but those could wait.

  Now, her attention had been captured by a vehicle in a gas station off the side of the road.

  The reason it had caught her attention, was the way it had veered across three lanes the moment the sirens had started and the flashing lights had appeared on the opposite road.

  Plus, the vehicle was a large, dark truck.

  She tried to move surreptitiously, slowing now as she approached the gas station. Her window was open, allowing a wind current to flutter through the vehicle, ruffling her shoulder-length hair.

  She reached the gas station, moving slowly, pulling up to a pump on the exact opposite side of the station.

  She watched two men emerge from the dark truck, glancing around. One of them looked straight at her, and she pretended as if she was checking her phone for something.

  When she looked up again, the front door to the truck had opened.

  A man was sitting there, straight-backed, hands folded neatly. She glimpsed a flash of gold around his neck.

  A jolt of exhilaration.

  She'd found them.

  This was it.

  She swallowed, tense, staring towards the truck as the men pretended to be fueling it, but mostly just watched the disappearing cop car, waiting and muttering to each other.

  Another one of the men glanced towards her.

  She winced, looking out the window now, studying the front of the mini gas station store.

  But when she looked over, the two men who'd been guarding the alley earlier were staring straight at her.

  She let out a puff of air.

  A choice, she had a choice.

  A direct confrontation?

  All three of those men were armed. And this time, she didn't have the advantage of surprise.

  On the other hand, if she let them get away, she wasn't sure she'd have another chance to find them. The license plate, she felt certain, was fake or stolen.

  She gave a little wave towards the men staring at her. One of them scowled and began moving towards her. His hand snuck inside his jacket.

  The man inside the truck adjusted a briefcase at his feet.

  His socks were black, his shoes polished, but red leather. His briefcase was similarly expensive, with a small, golden snake etched on the side.

  Cora pressed her teeth together.

  One of the men had postured by a pump fifteen feet away. He wasn't coming any closer, but he was pulling something from his jacket.

  She reached a decision.

  They weren't cops. They weren't going to stop her, speak with her.

  Whatever they were, their body language was clear.

  They intended to shoot her dead for no other reason than just in case.

  And so, she floored the pedal, cursing and ducking. Bullets flew after her. The back windshield shattered, but she kept going, speeding as she hastened back onto the street, leaving rubber against the ground and spinning off to a small parking lot. She drove over concrete barriers into an adjoining lot outside a closed fast-food place. The bullets stopped. The truck's brights glared at her and the vehicle pulled back onto the highway, speeding rapidly away from her.

  She watched it merge, breathing heavily. She tried to turn, but the car wasn't moving.

  She cursed, trying again. But having glided to a halt, bumping against the front of a store window, her vehicle was no longer working.

  A stray bullet? Had she hit something, bumping over the concrete barrier?

  “Shit!” she screamed, slamming a hand against the steering wheel. The adrenaline continued to bruit through her veins, and she closed her eyes against a sudden jolt of a piercing headache.

  She glared into the rearview mirror, twisting to watch the final glimpse of red brake lights as the truck disappeared up the road, sweeping under a bridge.

  She exhaled slowly, forcing her mind to focus.

  Emotions were only useful insofar as they aided in the mission.

  And now, the next step was clear.

  She pulled her phone, her hand shaking somewhat, the adrenaline rapidly cycling even still. She lifted the phone, waiting for it to connect. And then, once again in control of her emotions, she said, quietly, “Jamie—listen to me. Change of plans. I'm going to need you to report your mother's vehicle stolen. Right now. If at all possible, go across the street and ask to borrow a neighbor’s phone to make a call. That way, you'll have an alibi when the cops come calling. Yes—yes, you'll need one. It will be fine. Just do what I say.”

  Cora listened to the reply, but she was only half paying attention, as her heart continued to beat a drum.

  She then pushed out of the wreckage of the van and broke into a jog, phone still glued to her cheek as she hastened away from the sputtering van.

  That taken care of, other thoughts cycled through her mind.

  She pictured the truck, the man in the front seat. The golden chain...and...the snake emblem on his briefcase.

  She frowned as she considered this last part. Then, she said into the phone, “Sorry, I have to go. Please—do what I say.” And then she hung up, breaking into a sprint now, racing away from the parking lot, from the van.

  The police would still be scrambling in the small town. But eventually, even startled hounds caught a scent.

  She needed another course of action.

  One thing was certain, Caitlin Johnson hadn't run away. She'd been taken. Along with the other girls from Westville, no doubt. And possibly many others.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cora slowed to a jog, then to a rapid walk as she reached an underpass, stepping along a sidewalk in the dark. Behind her, a constant wail in the night, she heard the blare of sirens.

  Her mind, however, was captured by something else entirely.

  The emblem on the briefcase.

  Possibly a company emblem? Maybe a designer bag?

  It was the only thing she could think of.

  The license plate number was also seared into her mind. Worth a shot—though this, she guessed, wouldn't be fruitful.

  Men with guns who bribed cops weren't generally the sort to give away their identities via the DMV. She moved hastily along the underpass, head ducked, hands in her pockets, moving hurriedly. She needed a way to trace that snake logo.

  Needed someone who could access the information in particular databases that she no longer had access to.

  She sighed as she considered it, then pulled her phone from her pocket. She hesitated a moment, considering her options.

  Commander Grayson came to mind...

  But no, the commander played things by the book. Same as her old partner, Saul.

  But what about...

  She bit her lip, pausing for a moment in the underpass. Then nodding to herself as she reached a decision.

  Yes, he might be willing to help.

  She dialed the number from memory. Phone numbers, like license plates, were easy for her to memorize.

  She waited a few moments, willing the phone to connect despite the late hour.

  But it didn't.

  She frowned, considered, then tried again.

  Once more, she waited patiently, listening to the dial tone. And only after the fifth ring, did someone answer.

  “H-hello?” came a croaking voice. “Who's there?”

  Cora's eyes widened and she felt her heart skip at the familiar voice. How long had it been? Five years? Six?

  She said quickly, “This is Cora Shields. Hey Sam—how are you?”

  A sudden pause. Then a quick inhale. “Holy shit. How's it going Cobra?”

  She winced at the old nickname. Then again, the snake tattoo on her right arm had been inked specifically because of the moniker. “It's going,” she said hurriedly. “Hey, Sam, I wish I could catch up, but this is kinda—”

  “Damn, this about the funeral? Man, Cobra, I was gonna. Really gonna. Just things got away from me. You know. Work n' all. I know you were close with Adder.”

  Cobra and Adder. Cora sighed. Another life, another time. Standing there in the underpass, sweating profusely, breathing heavy, it all seemed like a mirage. Silly almost.

  But there had been nothing silly about the men who'd given her that name.

  Nothing silly about the apologetic, spurting way that Sam spoke. She'd singlehandedly seen the Navy medic rescue six men out from under mortar fire while running on a broken leg with absolutely no regard for his own safety.

  In fact, that was why he'd been discharged. His act of heroism had seen him too injured to continue in the service. More shrapnel in his leg than bone now, according to the last she'd heard.

  “Sam, I'm not calling about the funeral,” she cut in urgently. “I'm looking for a favor.”

  Another pause. “What type of favor?” A note of suspicion had now crept into his voice.

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I'm...I'm looking to track someone. He's got a—”

  “Hello no, Cora,” Sam said suddenly. And she knew he was serious as he'd used her actual name. “I'm not in that game anymore. I whittle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I whittle. Try Johnny. He's in South America somewhere. I'm sure he'd love to hear from you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No, shit. I mean it. Johnny...he's different now.”

  Cora frowned. “Look, Sam, it's important. Addie had a daughter. She's been taken—”

  “Hey—hey don't tell me that shit! Stop. It's depressing. I can't help you, Cora. Like literally can't. I don't have access anymore. I really do whittle. I own my own woodshop. Call Johnny—look. I gotta go. Sorry about missing the funeral.”

  “Sam! Wait.”

  “No, gotta go. Seeya!”

  He hung up, and Cora held back a shout of frustration. She stared in fury at the phone, glaring. She paused for a moment, considering her options.

  Johnny?

  That Italian prick had caused her more grief than the rest of them combined. Then again, that was somewhat par for the course when SEALs decided to flout regulation and start seeing each other.

  And Johnny had definitely seen Cora. And then, after things had ended in—quite literally—a fiery fashion, Cora and Johnny had sworn they'd never see each other again.

  She shifted from side to side, trying to think of another option.

  Maybe she ought to just risk Agent Brady, Saul had said she should call when she needed.

  She nibbled on her lip, considering the options.

  But then she sighed, shaking her head.

  She knew what Saul would say.

  Besides, the old man's bedtime was nine p.m. sharp. He wouldn't answer anyhow.

  “Shit,” she muttered, raising her phone again.

  Did she remember Johnny's number? So much of that man she'd tried to force out of her memory. But as she considered it, the numbers came back to her, floating to the surface like more bed memories.

  Reluctantly, and with an air of petulance, she jammed the digits into her phone. Her thumb hovered over the green phone icon. She waited a moment, and then, with an act of will, she pressed dial.

  As the phone started to connect, she glanced down the underpass, watching as a car moved towards her, headlights bright. They had their high beams on. She tensed, her shadow cast behind her like a long streak of ink. She held out a hand, blocking the glare from the lights.

  The car was moving slowly...too slowly, wasn't it?

  She began to move now, turning and striding rapidly up the underpass. She waited, listening to the approaching car, ears attentive. She lifted her phone in front of her, using the reflection to watch the motion of the oncoming vehicle.

  It didn't stop though. Didn't slow.

  Just kept moving, at the same snail's pace, past her, then out the other side of the underpass.

  She breathed a sigh of relief...

  But relief was short lived as she heard the voice.

  “Hey? Cora? That you?”

  She stared at the phone where she held it away from herself as if attempting to keep it at arm's length. For a moment, she considered dropping the thing and beating a tactical retreat.

  But she needed the help, needed the information.

  For now, she was flying blind.

  Caitlin was still out there. The daughter she'd never known her friend had.

  Adder and Cobra.

  Never again. Addie dead by her own hand.

  Cora felt a shiver of horror at the thought, shaking her head in frustration. Then, like swallowing something nasty, or ripping a band-aid, in one rapid motion, she placed the phone back to her cheek. Somehow, the cold of the device made her skin crawl.

  “John,” she said simply. He'd always hated when people called him John. Said it made him think of his mother. And so, she repeated it, “John.”

  “Cora,” he replied, curt, tense.

  It had been three years since they'd last seen each other. And...he sounded exactly the same. Two parts smug, six parts arrogant and ten parts asshole.

  “I called Sam first,” Cora said quickly, feeling as if this were an important piece of information to share. “But he couldn't help.”

  Johnny said, “So you need my help? What with?”

  She scowled at this interpretation. It was true...she just didn't like hearing him say it. She sighed, picturing her old flame's rugged features. He'd been built like a gymnast. Average height with deceptively strong muscles on a trim frame. One of his eyes had a scar along the lid, up to the hairline—testament to a close encounter with a knife-wielding terrorist. His arms were similarly scarred, and his hair was always cut short. A neat, military cut for a man who otherwise made a habit of flouting the rules.

  This, of course, was why Sam had recommended Johnny to begin with.

  If ever there was someone she could work with outside the usual bounds of acceptable conduct, it was her ex.

  But she hadn't anticipated exactly how much talking with him would grate on her.

  She paused, inhaling sharply through her teeth. She emerged from the underpass now, out into the moonlit sky again, towards a row of security lights lining a metal barrier protecting a switchback and a sharp drop.

  As she moved, she said, “I need you to run a plate. You still able to do that?”

  “Able to? What do you mean able to?”

  “Nothing. Just asking if you can do that.”

  “What's in it for me?”

  “Christ, Johnny,” she snapped. “You think I wanted to make this call?”

  “Nah, definitely not. You haven't called in three years. I shoulda figured the one time you pick up the damn thing, you only do it 'cus you need something.”

  Her temper flared. “Hold on one moment!” she snapped. “That's not fair!”

  “Which part?”

  She considered this. Then huffed in frustration. In a way, she supposed he did have a point. She hadn't made a habit of calling any of her old SEAL buddies. She'd wanted a clean break. Especially after how all of it had ended.

  Now...

  With Addie...

  With Johnny...

  She was feeling the slow prickle of regret. And no small amount of guilt.

  Which, of course, just made her angrier.

  “You know what, forget it!” she snapped. “I'll figure it out myself.”

  She hung up, marching up the sidewalk, beneath the streetlights. The bright glare of the white bulbs cast her shadow in constant motion, first before her then behind as she moved up the road. No sound of sirens now. No passing cars.

  In the distance, along the highway, she spotted the occasional beacon of headlights, but otherwise she felt very much alone.

  Her phone began to ring.

  She scowled at it.

  It continued ringing, somehow feeling more insistent than normal. Perhaps that was just because of the source of the call.

  She answered, “What?”

  “No,” Johnny snapped.

  “What?”

  “No. We're not doing this. You don't get to beg for help, hang up, act like a spoiled teenage brat then expect me to beg you to help you.”

  He sounded like he was just getting started. So, she hung up again.

 

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