Page 26 of Peace Under Fire

Once again, he considered making a run for his truck. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe nobody had eyes on it. But if she was right—and Christ, she’d been right about that last mission.

He couldn’t chance it. If he was being monitored, they were after Mandy, and he’d lead them straight to her.

His opinion of the death trap in front of them didn’t improve as he drew closer. The tires were in even worse shape than he’d thought. Not only were the fuckers bald, but the tread was separating along the outside edge.

Then again, the pitiful shape of the vehicle might work in their favor. Nobody would expect them to escape—or try to—in this piece of shit. Besides, they didn’t have much choice. If he called a taxi or Uber, they could be spotted way before the vehicle arrived.

Their best bet was climbing into this bucket of scrap metal and heading for the exit.

“Keys,” he said, dropping her arm and holding out his palm.

An icy gust of wind penetrated his jacket, and the last of the warmth from the contact with her hand fled.

He ignored the sudden chill and wrapped his fingers around the single key she dropped in his palm. The key was attached to a thin chain, which was attached to a plastic, purple coin pouch.

Purple. Of course, it was purple.

“That’s for the ignition, not the door,” she said as she skirted the dented and mottled hood. “It’s unlocked. There’s no key for the doors.”

Why was he not surprised?

The driver’s door opened with a sullen groan and the seat accepted his weight with even more guttural drama. Well, the damn thing certainly had personality. Bad personality.

He barely avoided whacking himself in the face with his knees as he sat. Scrunching over, he spread his legs as far apart as possible and tugged on the latch that would move the seat back. After a long moment of cursing and pulling, the seat shot back, allowing him to stretch out his legs, making it less likely he’d give himself a black eye if they hit a pothole.

He shoved the key into the ignition and twisted it.

Put…put…put.

Grinding his teeth, he tried again. More limp ‘puts’.

Just fabulous.

“It takes her a few tries before she starts,” Mandy told him with an encouraging pat on the dashboard.

Squish felt his face heat in frustration.

This had to be the worst getaway car in the history of getaway cars. “Can this thing go over twenty miles an hour?”

“Hey! She got me here in one piece,” Mandy retorted as Squish cranked the engine again. “There weren’t many cars available in my price range when I had to ditch Cherry and find another vehicle to drive me back to Virginia Beach.”

Why had she ditched her first car? He added the question to his growing list. The rust bucket finally started with a protesting squeal, followed by a serious backfire. He started at the explosive sound. So did she.

Just great. The backfire sounded like a gunshot, which was sure to get them noticed. But it was too late to choose plan B now. Not that there was a plan B, which was the whole problem.

“Lock your door,” he directed. Assuming it would even lock.

Apparently, it did. She pressed the tab on her door handle down. He did the same on his side. After one final glance around the empty lot, he pulled sedately out of the parking space—mostly because the damn car didn’t do better than sedate. Hell, it was barely responsive to his foot on the accelerator.

God help them if they needed instant speed.

He aimed the car for the exit at the back of the lot and had to course correct almost immediately when it pulled hard to the right.

The back exit was on the same side of the street as the front one, just separated by a couple hundred feet of slush-crusted pavement. If someone was parked at the back of the front lot, like she’d described earlier, they’d be able to keep tabs on both exits.

While Mandy’s body partially blocked him, she was short enough that his profile would be clearly visible. But then, so would Mandy’s, and that big, floppy hat of hers wouldn’t fool a professional.

“Bend over so you’re not visible through the window,” he told her.

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