Page 16 of Carnal Urges
Other than the landing jet and the distant sounds of traffic, I hear nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No cries for help.
It’s creepy as hell.
“Going somewhere?”
Startled, I suck in a breath. Peeking around the door, I see Declan there, leaning against the side of the limo, arms folded over his chest. He stares down at me with half-lidded eyes.
I look him up and down. Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to be bleeding. “You’re alive.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Almost as disappointed as you were when I woke up on the plane.”
He reaches down and pulls me out of the car. When I’m on my feet, he takes the pistol from my hand, bends to shove it back into the holster around his ankle, then straightens and looks at me.
“I wasn’t disappointed. I was depressed.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re all heart.”
Okay, notallheart. He’s got another organ of substantial size, but I’m not thinking about that.
He leads me across the street with his hand wrapped around my upper arm, towing me along like luggage. When I start to limp, he stops short and looks at me.
“My feet hurt. It’s no big—”
He picks me up again, hoisting me into his arms and continuing along as if he does this every day. Which maybe he does. I have no idea how often this man kidnaps people and carries them across rainy streets forested with dead bodies.
He sets me down next to a black Chevy Camaro, opens the passenger door, and pushes me in. He slams shut the door and trots around to the driver’s side, sliding his big frame into the seat with surprising grace. He starts the car and guns the engine.
“Seat belt.”
“We’re stealing this car?”
“You have a talent for noticing the obvious.”
“Good thing the guy left the keys in the ignition.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t. I know how to hot-wire old cars.”
“A skill you learned in prison, no doubt. Will you let me drive?”
When he cuts me a lethal look, I say, “A guy I knew in college had this awesome red Camaro that he used to let me—”
“Seat belt!”
“There’s no need to shout.”
He leans across me, grabs the seat belt, yanks it down, and clicks it into place. Then he grabs the steering wheel and grips it so hard, it’s like he’s wishing it were my neck. We take off, the Camaro’s V-8 engine roaring.
As we’re speeding down the street, two black SUVs round the corner and head toward us.
“Is that your men?”
“Aye.”
“So it was only you and Sean against all those other guys? How is that possible? There were like a dozen of them. You didn’t have enough rounds of ammo in your gun. Unless Sean had a high-capacity magazine in his or something. But still, you’d both have to bereallygood shots. Or really lucky. And where’d he go, anyway?”
He mutters, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
