Jason Stark knelt beside Jess and patted her down, taking the gun from the holster under her arm. His sour smell and heavy five-o’clock shadow told her that he’d been holed up in this garage for days, hiding from the mobsters who wanted to kill him. And hiding from the police, who would blow his cover by telling the world that he wasn’t actually dead. Jason wore a thick bandage on his left hand. It was gray and dingy and snaked up his arm, its bulk puffing up the sleeve of his shirt. Jess knew how he’d suffered that injury—opening a vein, spilling enough of his blood to fake his own murder and hang it on an innocent man. Aidan Callahan was a patsy. He was innocent of the murder of Caroline’s husband, who was alive and well and currently pointing a gun at Jess’s head.
Caroline must’ve been in on it with Jason all along. Jess had followed Caroline to this garage, which proved that Caroline knew that Jason was here, and knew he was alive. Of course she did. She’d been hiding out herself, waiting for the plan they’d set in motion to play out. The two of them stole millions from the Russian mob, enough to support their lavish lifestyle, to build a fabulous oceanfront house, and presumably to fill the coffers of the numerous offshore bank accounts that Jess would now spend years attempting to trace, assuming she got out of here alive. Stealing that money wasn’t the sort of crime a person should expect to get away with. Not because the police would find you. The police were busy; they missed a lot. But the Russians weren’t so easily distracted. They were ruthless and relentless. They wouldn’t stop until they got every penny of their money back and took the interest payments in blood. The Starks knew what was coming. Jason would end up in a shallow grave with a bullet in the back of his head, and there was no escaping. Mexico wasn’t far enough to run. The only way out was to die before they got to him—credibly, believably, with someone else to take the fall. Someone who’d walk into the trap willingly and play his role to perfection because he didn’t even know he was playing. Someone gullible and vulnerable, like Aidan Callahan.
“Up,” Jason said, and yanked Jess to her feet roughly.
He stood behind her, pressing the gun into her back. They were alone in the garage as far as she could tell. The rear door was open; Mike had gone in pursuit of Caroline. The building was large—fifty or sixty feet wide by thirty long—and sparsely furnished. The SUV Caroline had been driving was parked in the middle of the floor. The Starks had set up camp along the far wall, with cots, table and chairs, and a workbench that functioned as a makeshift kitchen, complete with microwave, hot plate, and groceries. There were tools on the workbench that Jess might be able to use as weapons, if only she could reach them.
Jason wasn’t about to give her that chance. He pulled her around to the driver’s side of the SUV, opened the front door, and shoved her in. Then he jumped in the seat behind her and stuck the gun against her neck.
“Turn the car on. I’ll tell you where to go.”
There existed a real possibility that Jason was planning to take her somewhere and kill her. She replayed the moment when Jason came up behind her. He’d emerged from behind the closed bathroom door. Mike Castro presumably hadn’t seen him. Mike didn’t know Jason was here. Jess was the only one who could blow Jason’s cover and prove he was alive. If she got away and told her story, word would spread. The case against Aidan Callahan would be dismissed, and the Russians would come looking. Jason wasn’t about to let that happen. In order to stop it, he’d take her away from here, to somewhere remote, and put a bullet in her head.
“I said, turn the car on.”
The coldness of his tone confirmed her assessment. He’d be capable of it, when the time came.
Jess pushed the ignition button. The garage door was down, and Jason was too distracted to realize that. She was about to ask him whether he intended her to drive right through it, but then she realized this was her chance.
“Go,” he said, waving the gun.
She stepped hard on the gas and crashed into the metal door. There was a terrible crunching sound as the front of the SUV crumpled. Jess wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and the impact tossed her forward. The airbag deployed, so fast and hard that it felt like a punch to the gut. She felt a searing pain in her chest and couldn’t breathe. But she forced herself to reach for the door handle. Managing somehow to open the door, Jess rolled sideways out of the car onto the concrete floor. And in the nick of time. Jason, who’d been thrown around in the backseat, righted himself and fired at the spot where she’d been, an instant too late. The bullet punctured the airbag with a loud popping sound. He fired again and shattered the windshield. Jess struggled to her knees and crawled around to the back of the car. He’d be coming for her any minute. She tried to get up and run, but whatever the hell was wrong with her chest made it impossible. Her breath came in wheezes. She saw spots, felt light-headed. Her side was an agony of pain. She must’ve broken a rib, punctured a lung. She heard Jason get out of the car behind her. He got off a third shot. It hit the concrete floor beside her, sending up a spray of chips. She rolled aside. But his feet were coming. There would be no escape.
“Drop it now!” Mike said.
He stood inside the back door, moving forward, his weapon out. The shots came too fast for her to keep track. Jason was down on the floor, his blood spreading toward her.
“He’s got a second gun,” she said.
Mike crossed to the spot where Jason lay and felt his pulse. He reached down and took Jess’s gun away.
“He’s alive. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“I need one, too,” Jess said, and passed out.