Page 24 of What Doesn't Kill Her

“Here!” Horst tossed something at her.

She snapped to attention and caught it. The keys.

“You drive,” he said.

Hmm. Unusual behavior for a macho man, allowing the female to control speed, route, stops. Really unusual behavior for a man who claimed he had a pressing bladder situation. That, combined with his determination to stop in the airport and leave her alone with the bag, gave her reasonable grounds for doubt. Horst Teagarten was now officially on her List of Suspicious Characters.

“Sure.” She stuck the keys in her pocket and pulled off her jacket. Her T-shirt fit snugly, showing off her toned arms and clearly proving she had no pistol or holster hidden around her narrow waist.

His eyes widened and she would swear she saw his brain empty.

Yep. Distraction of the female form plus reaffirmation of her vulnerability. Maybe he was going to try to steal the mummy’s head, maybe he wasn’t, but she had nailed him right in the stupidity.

She slammed the back doors closed. “Where am I driving?”

“The map’s inside.”

She walked around to the driver’s side, and as she slid into the seat, she smoothly pulled the loop at her waistband, bringing the nylon holster up and putting the pistol grip high on her left hip, where she could reach it...just in case. “Let’s see the map,” she said.

8

The route took them north on I-5 out of Portland, across the state line into Washington, then cut west on Highway 12 toward the Olympic Peninsula. Yearning Sands Resort was on the Peninsula; during her time there, Kellen had studied the terrain, learned the flora and fauna, read the maps. For her, who had fought in a war zone, knowing your environment made good tactical sense.

What she had learned filled her with awe; the isolated peninsula was like no place else on earth. The Pacific Ocean battered the wild coast with storms. The earth moved with the roiling fiery hell beneath; earthquakes were always a threat, and for as long as the ocean had existed, cold blue tsunamis had swept the beaches clean and white. The mountains grew with every earthquake; every violent storm fought to bring them down with torrents of rain and wind and snow.

Wildlife—bunnies, bears, wolves, birds—thrived. Tourists passed through to gape and wonder. And of course, a few hearty, marvelous, eccentric souls lived there through warm summer days and long dark winter nights.

Kellen stopped along a lonely stretch of coastal road and let Horst out to take his leak. He’d been complaining ever since she took the “wrong” turn onto a highway small enough to barely be a mere scratch on the map. But she knew where she was going, and her sense of wrongness increased every time Horst picked up his phone to text. He cursed furiously when he discovered this region was so isolated cell service was sporadic and cheered when they drove through a tiny town and he was able to send his barrage of texts.

Now she watched him in the rearview mirror, and yes, he did take a leak, but as soon as he was done, he had his cell in his hand again, and when he glanced guiltily at her, she used her finger and pretended to be applying lipstick. When he glanced away, she adjusted the pistol on her left hip so she could grab it with her right hand, aim and shoot. Maybe she wouldn’t have to. But that sensation ofoddcontinued building, and she had learned to trust her instincts or die.

Horst climbed back in. “Whew! I feel better. You need to go?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You’ve got the bladder of a camel.”

“You’re not the first guy to notice.” What was it with some men that even urination was a contest? “Ready?”

“Let’s go.” He didn’t fasten his seat belt. He wanted to be ready for action.

They reached the junction of Highway 101 and Kellen turned onto the Olympic Mountains.

“You seem to know where you’re going.” He sounded annoyed.

“You showed me the map.”

“If you remember so good, how come you took the wrong road back there?”

“There aren’t very many roads out here, so a little diversion in case we’re being followed is a good idea.” She gave him time to digest that, then, “How much do you think that head is worth on the illegal market?”

“I don’t know.” His hand inched toward his pistol. “Maybe not so much.”

“Enough to kill for.”

“The courier could have died by accident.”

Earlier, he had pretended not to know about the courier or his death. Horst had just officially become one of the bad guys. In a calm voice meant to soothe and explain, she said, “The trouble with trouble is, if you get mercenaries involved, and they kill one person, they’re not going to stop. You were in the Army. You know what mercenaries are like. They’ll keep coming. They’ll betray the people who work for them to keep an extra dollar.” She felt like she had to give him warning before this went any further.

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