Chapter 19
A wolf doesn’t turn around when a dog barks. ~African Proverb
Gwen
“Duck under the dash.” Axel tosses my suitcase in the back seat, jumps behind the wheel, and pebbles fly as he roars from the parking lot.
Before hiding, I turn and follow his gaze. Behind us, a menacing dark sedan with tinted windows races forward. A second later, a bullet smashes our driver’s side mirror. Lesson learned, I drop to the mat.
Near my head, a shiny dress shoe presses down on the accelerator. The storms will cause beachgoers to leave early and crowd the roads. Wulf won’t have enough room to lose our tail.
When the plastic cup holder explodes, I cry out and compress my body into a tiny ball. Without warning, black leather stomps on the brake. I’m thrown to one side, and the world spins until it stops beside a pink brick movie theater.
Unable to stay down, I poke my nose over the dash. About six hundred feet away, the vehicle behind us races forward in a game of chicken.
“Get down, dammit.” Gun out, the angry agent opens his door, places one foot on the pavement, and shoots. He must hit a front tire because the sedan rotates sideways.
Brace, girl, brace yourself. As my inner bitch screams, I lift my butt to the seat, grip the sides and place my soles on the dash.
The oncoming vehicle careens, smashes our right headlight, then slams into the back of a building.
Holy shit, that was close.
Abs facing me, my hero steps up and clunks his gun on the rooftop. “Gwen. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I’m more worried about the sawed-off shotgun in the window of the Kamikaze car.
Over my head, Axel shouts, “FBI. Don’t be stupid. Drop the weapon.”
Ignoring the command, the shooter raises double barrels while I lie flat, cover the top of my head, and pray.
Bang.
My ears throb from the loud blast. Relieved to find I’m not covered in blood, I lift my head, put my nose to my window, and gasp. “Oh shit, It’s Stephen Bourdeau.”
With no thought to his own life, my lover races across the parking lot and follows the man who shot Henry.
No fucking way. Still deaf, I climb over the cup holder, sink behind the wheel, and grind gears. Pedal to the metal, I race around the brick building and slam on the brakes inches from the Canadian. On the curb beside the northbound traffic, the mercenary tugs an older gentleman from a blue Jaguar. As the hijacked sportscar races up the mostly empty bus lane, I pull alongside the waiting Wulf, and he jumps beside me.
Ahead of us, metal crunches followed by a cacophony of honking horns and shouts. Ignoring the multi-car accident, I inch forward on the grass.
While my eyes stay glued on our suspect, the Fed calls his boss. He’s still explaining our situation when the Jag turns left, crosses the highway, and zooms down a two-lane country road.
The other car has more power under the hood, and the distance between us grows. “I’m losing him, Axel.”
Head out the window, my partner fires two rounds. When we lose sight, I assume he missed until we make a sharp turn. There, beside the field of ankle-high corn, I stop beside the disabled vehicle.
Mouth grim, Axel raises his pistol. “FBI. Hold it right there. Hands in the air.”
The arrogant face from the beach turns, and he inches his arms up. My drawing captured his broad nose and thin lips, but his eyes are closer together than I recall.
Three tense minutes later, Wulf places the cuffed man in the back seat of our car.
The squinty-eyed perp grins at me as he’s about to shut the door. “We have your daughter.”
“I’m not falling for your BS again. She’s with her father.” My factual statement makes him chuckle.
“You have no idea.” His evil insinuation causes my arm hairs to stand on end. He knows something. Stepping back, I grab a sidearm from an open holster and aim it at the man who dared threaten my kid.
“Guinivere, no. Lower the weapon.” My lover’s palms go out as if soothing a horse about to bolt.
Ignoring him, I stay focused on Bourdeau. “I’m not going to kill him, babe. I’m only going to shoot his dick off.”
Careful not to point at Wulf, I wave the pistol around like a crazy person in the movies. “Tell me who hired you.”
Unaware of how motivated I am, the mercenary laughs. “Your boyfriend works for the FBI. He’ll stop you.”
Taking a deep breath, I aim, add pressure to my index finger, and fire.
The guy screams and stares at his upper thigh. “Mon Dieu, I’m bleeding all over the place.”
He glances at the authority figure supposed to save him, but I’m in charge. “Shit. I missed.”
“Gwen, don’t-” Wulf half-heartedly tries to grab the gun.
Knowing I have his blessing, I step forward and raise the weapon again. “Unless you want to pee into a bag the rest of your life, tell me what you know.”
“Nothing.” The arms dealer’s eyes widen as I smile at his crotch.
“I don’t believe you. Three… Two…”