Page 88 of Canyon of Deceit
“We’re always together.”
I smirked. “Not always.”
She fumed. “Why haven’t you destroyed it? Or are you giving me the pleasure?”
“Sergio needs to make the decision.”
Her eyes curtained shut. Chances are this conversation would never enter her head again, and I’d keep her drugged persona to myself for just the right occasion.
Within the hour, the ER curtain opened, and Sergio towered over me, all five-foot-ten-inches of him, broad shoulders, and meaty biceps.
I exhaled. “Hey.”
The lines across his forehead looked like railroad tracks. He asked how Therese was doing and held out his hand. “Transponder?”
“In my pocket.”
“How long have we been friends?”
“Long enough to determine who always wins, and it usually isn’t me.” I reached inside my pocket.
“From the looks of you, might not hurt to listen. I determined a few things on the way here,” Sergio said. “You won’t like it.”
“Not unless we’re calling the shots together. Literally.”
“The FBI needs intel on everything we’ve uncovered. No secrets,” he said. “Every problem has a solution, and it usually involves teamwork. This isn’t a game of cattle rustling from the old west chronicles. We’re looking at more deaths to follow if it’s not stopped.”
I eyed my old friend. “No argument with me. We’re in this together. I do have a request, though. Let’s ensure the Texas Rangers get the credit for preventing a foreign assassination on US soil, solving murders, and rescuing a kidnapped child. In the meantime, we use the tracker to sniff out the ROC.”
“You’re the negotiator.”
“I have something to say,” Therese whispered. “I might be under the influence, but I’m all in. I’ve played the victim long enough.”
FIFTY-ONE
THERESE
I opened my sleepy eyes the following morning in an unrecognizable bedroom with a vague recollection of how I’d gotten there. Snippets of the truck tailing us, the firefight, and the car flipping zipped between reality and a shadow. I vaguely recalled a teen boy and the hospital. Wilderness-survival training failed to cover race car driving or dodging bullets.
I turned my head and winced at the sledgehammer beating into my temples. Ah, a concussion.Thank You that I’m alive.
“Sounds like you need a painkiller.” Blane’s voice made me smile.
“We’ve switched roles.”
“On a regular basis. How’s the head?”
Pay attention to him.But my sleep-filled eyes fluttered. “I’m not moving if that answers your question. Where are we?”
“Different address, another extended-stay hotel. Same agents guarding us as last night.”
Oh yes, the agents. I scrambled through my fog. “What’s the rental car look like?”
“Totaled.”
“Like my head.”
“Have you noticed we use humor to mask how awful we feel?”
