Page 62 of Nicole's Shelter

“Didn’t mean that wasn’t where he went.”

“True.”

“Did you and your sister cat sit for him anytime that summer?”

“Just the week of spring break.” She lapsed into silence and he let her, his mind turning over the possibilities. Really, none of it mattered if the evidence she’d been hiding wasn’t enough to force Clifton into making a mistake.

He couldn’t be sure how the marshals or a federal prosecutor would react to an old photo. There had to be ways to verify it as genuine, but he didn’t know what those methods were, or how to make it happen. He was getting ahead of himself again. First they had to safely reach Myrtle Beach and then they could figure out the next step.

* * *

Agitated, Clifton paced his hotel room, determined to find his target. The photos he’d taken at the scene were cycling through in a slide show on his laptop. Skid marks and scorched trees and blood smears. And no record of a woman being there at all.

He’d arrived at the scene as the sedan was being loaded onto a wrecker. Too late to plant any damaging evidence. It was the same model and the same license plate as the sedan Livingston had used to evade his agents at the apartment. Clifton had been forced to leak a new theory about the rural route battle through a hungry television reporter who’d shown up while he was still walking the scene.

Based on what his agents had given him so far on Bartholomew that theory wouldn’t distract anyone for long.

Catastrophic failure didn’t begin to cover this fiasco.

He threw a punch at the wall, pulling back at the last second. He’d save that—and more—for the man helping her.

With no valid reason to be there, he’d had to avoid the pre-op interrogations of the two surviving bikers. Since he was still in his hotel rather than a jail cell, he had to assume they hadn’t given him up. Yet.

But he could hear the clock ticking like a bomb in his head. He knew how his agency worked. It was just as likely the authorities running the case were trying to verify any wild claims made by the bikers. With one brief phone call he used the shame of failure to adjust the terms of his agreement with the Dragons. The injured bikers would soon die from complications while under guard at the hospital.

He knew he could leave the country tonight and to hell with his reputation. The money would buy him all the respect he needed in Abu Dhabi. But he would know he’d been out maneuvered by a little girl.

There had to be a play, a way to finish this on his terms. He just had to think.

His computer chimed with an email update. The agent had provided a full report, including the detailed record the DEA maintained on Bartholomew, his businesses, and his associations. Clifton swore at the obvious regard the local office held for Bartholomew. Seemed the man had been helpful in chasing down drugs and money over the years.

How convenient that he’d called his own wrecker company to tow the sedan to the evidence lot. According to the email, the other vehicles were accounted for as well. But Bartholomew hadn’t walked up on the scene and the lead biker had reported the woman was in the sedan before he’d attacked.

Where was Livingston?

Clifton combed through Bartholomew’s resume, quickly finding the medical discharge from the Army. A veteran. A vet had started that investigation company in South Carolina too. The company that held the registration on the sedan.

He sat back, tapping his fountain pen to the notepad. It was worth a shot. He shut down his computer and slid it into the pocket of his overnight case. Grabbing his keys and cell phones, he prepared for another road trip.

No better place to start than a fill up at the busiest truck stop on Interstate 95.

* * *

Nicole came awake as the sound of the truck engine changed. She glanced around, amazed that the haze and blurriness had disappeared.

“Oh! Rick! I can see. Everything is clear at last.”

Rick glanced her way and smiled. “You’re not even squinting. Guess I should have stopped for gas sooner.”

“I didn’t mean to doze off.”

“No problem.”

She glanced at the clock on the dash, but had no idea how long she’d been out. “Where are we?”

“Just entered South Carolina.”

She’d slept for hours. “You must be tired too,” she said as he pulled into a gas station and stopped at the pump furthest from the store. “Want me to drive from here?”

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