Spots of rain lashed the Jeep’s windshield as Bonnie sped away from the motel. She drove straight home, checking the rearview mirror with paranoid frequency to be sure Pascal wasn’t following. She didn’t think he could be after her, not this soon, but getting cooked in a big pot of water like a poached egg had a way of putting her on edge.
Even if he wasn’t following her now, he might head for her place before long. Her address was on her driver’s license, and he had that, along with everything else in her purse. She wished like hell she’d retrieved the purse, but in the rush out the door she hadn’t had time to look for it. It could have been in the nightstand or in his luggage or anywhere.
So, yeah, he could come after her. Realistically, though, she didn’t think he’d play it that way. He was a pro, and Alan Kirby—formerly Jeffrey Walker—was his primary target. He would focus on Alan first. For the moment, she was probably safe.
More than that, she was still alive, which was amazing, even if she couldn’t exactly enjoy it because she felt like a sack of garbage. Her abs ached as if she’d done a million crunches. Her stomach was kind of whoopsy too.
Dying wasn’t so scary when it was impersonal and quick. What had happened in the tub was something different, something sadistic and crazy, and she kept flashing back to it in Dolby quadraphonic sound and Imax 3D.
All in all, she’d had better nights. And this one wasn’t over yet.
Her house came up fast in the Jeep’s headlights. She parked in front of the garage and took a moment to grab the Ziploc bag on the passenger seat, which contained the .38 from Des’s house.
She had some trouble exiting the Jeep. The muscles of her legs still weren’t working right. She stumbled to the front door, grateful that her house keys and car keys shared the same key ring, so she could let herself in. The only difficulty was disarming her security system. The tremors vibrating through her fingers made it hard to punch in the six digits on the keypad.
She didn’t think Pascal could have beaten her here, but events had already proven how wrong she could be. She entered the house cautiously, checking for any sign of forced entry. She half expected the son of a bitch to jump up out of the dark and grab hold of her with his black-leather hands.
He didn’t, though. He wasn’t there.
She locked and bolted the door, then headed toward her bedroom. She’d lost her Walther, and she needed another weapon. Hell, she needed more than one.
She was halfway down the hall when abruptly she felt sick. Her stomach twisted. She bent double and threw up.
Get yourself under control, Bonnie. God damn it, you’re not doing anybody any good puking like a damn baby.
The severe little scolding didn’t help. Her legs were shaking, her knees threatening to fold. The room swam around her, its contents doubled, the air sparkly, the lights too bright. She could see the bedroom doorway—two doorways, actually. They were just a few strides away, those twin doors. Fighting for balance, she staggered nearly all the way to the bedroom before a high hum rose in her head and the room grayed out.
She came to with her face on the carpet. At first she didn’t understand what had happened. She’d forgotten everything except the tub and the pain. And now the pain was gone. Maybe she was dead. Maybe this was what death was—this numbness, blankness, this bright fog everywhere, and no sound, no feeling. It could be worse.
Then she remembered. She’d escaped.
So get moving already.
She was on her feet again, stumbling into the bedroom.
Next to her bed was a small fireproof safe. The lock was keyed to her fingerprint. She opened the safe and put in the plastic bag containing the .38. She would need the gun soon, but for now it had to be kept in storage.
There were other guns in the safe, backup weapons. All of them were unregistered. Over the years she had acquired them through black market channels. None except the .38 had been used in anything criminal; she made it a point to dispose of any weapon that could tie her to a crime.
She chose a Glock 17 with an Osprey silencer, and a Ruger 10/22 carbine. The Glock shot 9mm Luger ammo. The Ruger fired .22 Long Rifle rounds. Ordinarily she wanted more stopping power than a .22, but the Ruger had a surprise or two up its sleeve.
She felt stronger now. Sharper.
She heeled fresh magazines into each weapon and gathered up all the extra mags she had. When both guns were loaded, she allowed herself a moment of rest.
Son of a bitch had tortured her. Had come damn close to frying her good. Without the keys and the extra time she’d bought by getting him to count her money ...
She shuddered, not just from cold, although she was cold—soaked to the skin.
In her bathroom she grabbed a towel and dried her hair. She tried not to look at the bathtub.
Her clothes were a sopping mess. She kicked off her shoes and wriggled out of everything else. While pulling off her jeans, she found a scrap of paper in the back pocket. The poem from his motel room. Waterlogged but still readable, if she could find someone who knew Spanish.
She grabbed a dark blouse and a pair of navy blue pants out of a laundry hamper, not knowing if they were dirty or clean, and put them on, angry at every small delay, even the time it took to snap a button or tug on a zipper.
Come on, get it together. You’ve got a family to save.
She’d given Pascal his quarry’s name. And Pascal had her phone. He would disable the lockout screen somehow, then check the call log and find the call from Alan. The Caller ID app listed his home address. After that, all he had to do was drive there and—well, a guy like Pascal wouldn’t leave any witnesses. If he came for daddy at home, he’d put down mommy too, along with the kid.
Bonnie wasn’t the type to get all sentimental about children. She didn’t think they were precious angels. Most of them were noisy, snot-nosed little monsters who belonged in a damn zoo. Still, all things being equal, she didn’t especially want some rug rat knocked off just because papa got himself involved in something crazy.
She thought of calling Alan to warn him. Nope, bad idea. The call would only freak him out, throw the whole family into chaos. Better to get over there and deal with the situation on the ground.
Before leaving the bedroom, she grabbed a fanny pack to replace her purse. It would hold the Glock and two spare magazines in a zippered breakaway pocket, along with a pack of cigs, a lighter, her tool kit from the Jeep’s glove box, and the spare cell phone she kept in her bureau. On her way out of the room, she grabbed a smart little beret. Never go hatless, that was her motto.
At the dining table she opened up her laptop and navigated to her cell account. If her phone was still on, she should be able to track Pascal with it. Knowing she was ditzy enough to misplace it, she’d made sure to activate the unit’s find-my-phone feature.
She searched for the GPS signal. A moving blip appeared on an onscreen map at the intersection of Highway 35 and Jefferson Boulevard.
She had an insane urge to call her own number and see if Pascal answered. She wanted to rage at him. She wanted to swear she would hunt him down and get revenge.
Pascal had left the motel, but he wasn’t heading toward Farmdell, not yet. He must have just fled the scene, worried that his gunshot would draw the cops. What with packing up his gear and clearing out, he might not have had time to check the call log yet.
She could wipe the phone remotely, turn it into a brick. Her account had an emergency feature—
Even as she had that thought, the blip disappeared.
Crap.
He’d either turned off the phone or deactivated the app that allowed remote access. Hardly surprising. He knew she’d tracked him via a cell phone once before.
Okay, she couldn’t keep tabs on him, and she couldn’t erase the call log. All she could do was speed to 133 Old Road. The house was only a few miles inland, not a long run from here. With any luck she would beat him to it.
And then ...
As dispassionately as possible she calculated the odds. She knew the territory better than Pascal did. She was a good shot, and she reacted quickly in an ambush, as she’d proven with Jacob Hart. She’d killed before, and she had no doubt she could kill Pascal if she got the drop on him. And she was sure as hell motivated.
Balanced against all that was Pascal’s undoubted competence and experience. It was safe to assume that a globetrotting assassin had gone up against tougher and more seasoned adversaries than Bonnie Parker of Brighton Cove.
So what were her chances? Maybe one in two. Oh hell, be realistic: one in three.
Which meant there was a high probability she would end up dead tonight, defending a client who’d lied to her, fighting a battle she didn’t even understand.
Well, she wasn’t in it for the glory. She was in it for the money—except she’d lost that.
Okay, then. She was just in it. That’s all.
She was in it, and there was no getting out.