Page 2 of Tested
This has all taken a minute, maybe less. I navigate a downhill curve, willing my heart rate to slow. I’m in the right lane, doing about fifty. The SUV’s on my tail but he hasn’t tried to hit me again, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to get stopped by a red light in a quarter of a mile or so.
Damn.
The road takes a bend to the right and I keep close to the shoulder. He’s close, too close. I speed up, but there’s only so much a Prius can do. I hear an echo of David’s laughter. He’s been after me to get a carwith more balls, as he says. Right now, I see his point.
We’re approaching the intersection, the lights glowing a couple hundred yards ahead of us. Red from the stop light. Red from a car’s brake lights. Red from my anger at whoever’s tailing me.
The Prius might not be the fastest car on the road, but I’d bet money it’ll corner better than my shadow’s tank. I slow down to about forty. With luck, I’ll be able to lose myself in the canyon before the SUV can make the turn.
I tense. The car is still stopped at the light ahead of me. The shoulder is narrow, maybe too narrow for an SUV. I’m going to pull around the stopped car, scoot along the shoulder, and make a tight turn. I draw a long breath in through my nose. I don’t know who’s after me, but I can lose him.
I slow another ten miles an hour, pulling closer to the shoulder. As I’m making my move, the damned SUV comes for me, giving my bumper a solid tap. Instead of making a tight turn, I lose traction in the gravel shoulder and spin out. Relaxing into the Prius’ motion, I manage to avoid the other car but broadside an electrical pole hard enough to trigger my airbags.
My brain whites out for a beat or two and when I blink, I’ve stopped moving and the car is filled with white powder. I can’t breathe. My seatbelt has caught me in a vice grip and there’s a gently deflating bag of nothing in my lap. I manage a sip of powdery air.
My lungs rebel.
I’d cough except I don’t have any air to expel. My ribs are burning and, lightheaded, I try to open the door.Fresh air. If I can’t see the air, I’ll have a better chance of breathing it.
The door opens some six inches and stops. I manage a gasp. Someone is standing there. Someone…their aura glowing green with streaks of silver.
Brodie.
“Jesus, man. Are you okay?” Brodie takes a step away from the car and helps me pry the door open.
I manage to draw in enough air to cough. That’s the best response I can come up with right now.
“I mean, I was just playing.”
Brodie is taller than me by an inch. Tipping my head to meet his gaze makes my neck hurt, so I don’t even try. I shake my head. That hurts too. “Text.” The word comes out mangled.
“What?” Brodie Kerr, Captain of the Elites, has the balls to look sincerely confused.
If I could find my gun through all the white powder, I’d shoot the fucker. Instead, I coax some more air into my lungs. “Next time, send me a text.”
He just grins at me.
Where’s my gun?
Traffic is crawling past me, although I’m not taking up much of the lane. He takes hold of the driver’s side door and starts to shove. “Put it in neutral,” he says, and I manage that simple task.
When the Prius is fully on the shoulder he steps aside and, after a struggle with the seat belt, I manage to crawl out. Brodie makes like he’s going to put an arm around me and I flinch. “What was that all about?” I ask, holding an arm tight across my ribs.
“We need to talk.”
I pull myself up as close to straight as possible. “I’m unclear why driving me off the road was necessary to bring about a conversation.”
Brodie’s grin broadens. His father is a djinn and his mother smoked a whole lot of grass. The combination gave him a decidedly unique worldview, a headful of blond dreadlocks, and cast-iron nerves. Now that my mind is a little more focused, I understand why playing chicken down Laurel Canyon Boulevard at night would appeal to him.
I sag against the car. “All right. You’ve got my attention. Talk.”
“It’s Poole, my dude.” He cuffs my shoulder. “He’s got a job for you.”
Poole, the head of the Elites. The closest thing I have to a father figure. The one person who could destroy the little island of peace I’m sharing with Trajan and David. “I can’t.” Because I’d blown it once and wouldn’t take that chance again. “He knows my answer, so I don’t see why he’s still asking.”
He tosses a few skinny dreads that have broken free of the bundle at the back of his head. “What’d you do tonight, MacPherson?”
I shrug and then wince because it hurts. “Went to see a man about a dog.”
