Page 47 of Surge

She didn’t blame him. Those chemicals were destined for her country. She chucked his chin. “We’re behind them, boy. I promise.”

“Delaney?” Torrence’s voice sounded tight. “I hate to ask, but we’re not doing this ride Grab-official, since you are in a hurry. You do have cash, don’t you?”

“Y—” The answer died in her throat. Oh no. She’d left her wallet at the safe house for operational security. But Garrett was tracking them.

Absolutely.

She hoped. With cash.

“Yeah. I do.” Her voice pitched high.

Delaney looked down at the SAT phone she’d pretended belonged to a “boyfriend.”

This was undercover, not lying, right?

He made a halfway stop at the light, then took a hard left. She snagged the grab handle again. Torrence obviously had taken her mission on as his own. He negotiated around a parked truck on the side, veered hard left to avoid a blue sedan.

Don’t let him get in an accident. Please, God.

Where was Garrett? She drew out her SAT phone and eyed it. No reply. She hoped the messages were getting through.

“I can still see the semi up there,” Torrence said, “but traffic is getting bad.”

She looked up as the light changed and a large group stepped away from a crowded gelato shop into the street.

Torrence ground down on the brakes.

The phone sailed out of Delaney’s hand onto the seat next to Surge. She grabbed for it before it ended up on the floor. Swallowing hard at how close they’d come to hitting the people, to running a red light, Delaney tensed. Saw the large truck turn out of sight. “We’re losing them!”

Torrence veered around a motorcycle, pitching her toward Surge.

“Shoot!” he exclaimed. “I lost them! Did you see them turn?”

She tossed the phone back in her pocket. “Sorry. Keep driving, and I’ll look down the cross streets for them.”

“Okay. This is your boyfriend, lady.”

Rashid her boyfriend. The thought nauseated her. At the third cross street, she spotted the truck sailing past a UPS truck. “Left here!”

“Can’t. I’ll take the next one.” He lurched to the right around the car in front of them, rumble strips sending vibrations through the car. He cut into the left lane and swerved left at the next intersection, then gunned it back toward the street where she’d seen the semi.

She kept her eyes peeled and scanned the vehicles ahead of them. Buildings, cars, street vendors all vied for what little space stretched between skyscrapers. Past a row of food trucks, she saw the silver bullet glide by.

“There! I saw it,” she called. “Turned right at that building that looks like it’s made of children’s blocks, but concrete.”

He laughed. “Shang Tower. That’s Stratus Street.” He ground to a halt at a red light, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

God, don’t let police catch this kid speeding. But please help us catch up to that semi.

And do what?

She’d figure that out.

The light changed, and he took off.

She gasped as he turned right . . . in front of a line of cars. Then blew out the breath she was holding. He was supposed to do that. This was Singapore—left-lane driving.

“I don’t see them,” he said.

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