Whatever pain Lock was in had disappeared, knocked out by a one-two punch of Vicodin and the thrill of knowing that he was minutes away from Kristin Miller. He swerved around a semi, blasting through a red light as they hurtled toward the motel.
“Easy there, Ryan,” cautioned Ty, slamming his hand against the dash to steady himself as the car rolled under them. “It’s no good if we crash before we get there.”
Lock eased off the gas, but only by a fraction. He wanted this done, and they were so close he could taste it. Things weren’t over when they had Kristin. He still wanted some personal time with Hanger. But that could wait.
The call from Angie was about an ad she had spotted, similar to the one they had seen for Shanice. Only this one matched Kristin perfectly.
Rather than make the call and risk someone recognizing either their number (calls from withheld numbers as a rule went unanswered) or their voice, they had quickly grabbed an elderly man. In return for a fast hundred dollars, he had made the call. His questions had confirmed, as best they could, that it was likely Kristin Miller on offer.
He had been given the address of a motel on the outskirts of Bakersfield and told to call for the room number when he arrived. They had taken the elderly man’s number and set off for the motel, the promise of another hundred bucks securing his continued cooperation.
The plan was simple. Get to the motel. Have the old guy call for the room number. Go in and extract Kristin Miller. If Hanger was there, all the better.
Lock’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Adrenalin surged in him. This beat advising the kids of wealthy Chinese businessmen on home security, or babysitting Russian oligarchs, hands down. It was a feeling that beat any drug, natural or manmade.
A flash of red light behind them pulled him back to the present. The whoop of a siren confirmed the bad news.
Lock slowed, studying the patrol car tucked in behind him. It was the same two cops they’d narrowly avoided back at the tattoo studio.
Ty checked them out too. “What you want to do?” he asked Lock.
“How close are we?” said Lock.
Ty scanned his phone, their position a red dot pulsing toward the motel. “Ninety seconds,” said Ty.
Lock flicked on his signal and slowed down. He needed a moment to weigh things up. Showing every sign he was pulling over achieved that. The last thing he needed was these two calling for backup.
Or was it?
Maybe it was precisely what they needed. A motel parking lot full of cops might not be the worst thing in the world right now.
The alternative was pulling over and a long, awkward explanation of what he and Ty were doing out here, with no guarantee they would dispatch anyone to go check the motel. That was assuming this was a crime they took seriously, which wasn’t always guaranteed. And who knew what kind of relationship they had with Gilman, or what kind of yarn he’d spun when he called for them to drop by.
Relative to LA, this was a small town, and small town cops could be a law unto themselves.
Lock looked over at Ty. “I’m going to run it. See if you can get the old guy to press them for the room number.”
Bracing himself again against the dashboard, Ty dug out his phone. Lock buried the gas pedal, pulling away with ease from the patrol car.