Chapter Four
Missoula
Police cruisers, a blinding kaleidoscope of flashing lights and earsplitting sirens, roared past them on the opposite side of Broadway Street. Every first responder in the city would be headed straight for the site of the explosion, where officers and agents were down.
It had all happened in a horrifying instant.
She could still smell the acrid scent of smoke, the gunpowder permeating the air, the odor of burning metal.
The Reaper had been better prepared than even she had expected.
Not that she had ever seen him at work in that manner, on that scale.
Only the aftermath in pictures. The hellish scene had unfolded with shocking speed, the world erupting into a nightmare of bullets and chaos.
Then the bodies started dropping, the number of fatalities rising with each minute that passed.
If they hadn’t fled when they did… A chill raked through her.
Christina had no idea how long it would take law enforcement to shift their focus to finding the assailant responsible for the havoc wrought or to resume a manhunt for her.
But she was certain the Reaper already had a solid estimate.
Only someone so calculated and decisive—so utterly cold-blooded—could’ve planned and executed such devastation without even breaking a sweat. No regard for the lives lost or the families that would be left broken by his carnage.
Christina stared out of the shattered rear windshield, keeping him in sight, several car lengths behind them, until Jackson made a hard right turn. Then a sharp left and another right. “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” he said, maintaining a zigzag pattern of driving.
They needed to come up with something. “He’s not far behind us.” She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t doubt for a second that he was close on their tail.
“I’m aware,” Jackson snapped, his voice strained. He took another hard turn.
“We can’t just drive around in circles.”
“I’m thinking.”
The man pursuing them wasn’t thinking. He was planning. Might have already determined what he would do next. They couldn’t afford to let him get two steps ahead of them. If they did, they would die.
“Jackson, the guy chasing us isn’t a regular hit man. Not a simple assassin for hire. He’s something else.” Something worse.
Something straight out of a nightmare.
“Yeah. I gathered.” Yanking the wheel, Jackson made a right turn, tires squealing. “Alvaro Aguilar. I crossed paths with him a few months ago.”
“And you lived to tell the tale? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. He was surveilling a friend of mine in the hopes she would lead him to her father, who the cartel wanted dead.
Aguilar was scoping out my friends. An IPS team in Bitterroot Falls.
The encounter, if you could describe it as such, was a close call in a restaurant.
Completely on his terms. No one got hurt or died that day because it wasn’t what Aguilar wanted. ”
On his terms.
Sounded like La Parca, the Grim Reaper deciding who would live and who would die.
“Right now,” she said, “he’s anticipating our next move.
Calculating his options. Mapping out checkmate.
” That was his talent. His true gift. Not his ability to kill, but how he strategized and orchestrated those kills.
“We can’t play his game. We won’t win.” Or rather, survive.
“He won’t give up.” No matter the odds, he wasn’t letting go of this vendetta. “There’s no stopping him.”
“He’s not invincible. Every threat can be neutralized.”
“That’s it,” she mumbled to herself. They had to outsmart him.
It was the only way. What would a marshal do?
Whatever it was, they had to do the opposite.
Something the Reaper would least expect.
“You can’t take me to a police station, or back to the US marshals’ building.
He’s probably counting on that, and if you do—”
“I’ll only the endanger the lives of more officers. I know. He’s using armor-piercing rounds, rigged that truck to blow, and who knows what else he has up his sleeve.” Jackson flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. “I think we lost him.”
She hoped so as well, but she knew better. With all his training and experience, he could easily track them.
“We shouldn’t count on it,” she said. “Underestimating him is the worst thing we can do. We need to ditch this vehicle.” With the busted windows and bullet holes, it was going to draw a ton of unwanted attention. “Find another set of wheels.”
They had to get out of the city, go off the grid and regroup. She had time-sensitive information about the cartel and was only willing to trust Jackson with it. But he would have to act on it quickly before it became useless. How he was going to accomplish that now, she had no idea.
The only thing that mattered right now was evading the Reaper and getting through this alive.
“I think I might have a better idea.” Jackson took the next corner so fast the rear end fishtailed. Picking up more speed, he raced down Reserve Street.
“Care to share it?” She’d examined a map of Missoula while holed up in the motel room, to get her bearings of the city. Sketch out egress routes. Identify places to hide. But she didn’t have the layout memorized and had no idea where they might be headed.
Jackson’s silence did nothing to steady her nerves. She wasn’t used to putting her life into the hands of others with no say in the matter. All it did was make her pulse ratchet higher.
They were approaching a bridge. Glancing over her shoulder, Christina searched for any sign of the car the Reaper had stolen. A little red crossover utility vehicle.
Nothing.
She wondered if he would’ve taken the time to switch cars and risk losing them.
Doubtful.
As soon as they made it across to the other side of the bridge, Jackson whipped the car down a narrow side street. The entrance had come up quickly and was tucked back behind trees. Easy to miss. He must’ve driven this way before, she assumed.
The side street opened to the bank of the river. About a mile down the road, they came to a boat rental shop, and he parked the beat-up SUV.
Taking off his helmet, he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on. “Unhook the cuffs and give them to me along with the key,” he said, tucking his gun in his holster.
She did as he asked, handing them to him. “Do you intend to use those on me again?”
“I hope you won’t give me a reason to.” He slipped the cuffs and key into the zipper pocket of his sport utility pants. “But I’ll keep my options open. Come on. Let’s go.”
Hurrying out of the back seat, she turned toward the water. The Clark Fork River was the largest in Montana. Long and wide and deep. And today, wild. “This is your plan?”
Jackson zipped up his jacket, covering his vest. “Yeah.” He took hold of her arm, his grip tight, as though he feared she might flee. Hauling her toward the shop, he looked at her. “Have you got a better one?”
She hated the idea. Would put it in the top three of the worst ones could think of, but it wasn’t as if they had a lot of choices. “We could wrench up a manhole cover and take our chances in the sewers.”
He threw her a perplexed sideways glance. “Really? That’s your idea?”
“Okay, no. I don’t have a better one. But I still don’t like this one.” She looked back over her shoulder at the side street. It was clear all the way to the main road. “We need to be quick.”
Jackson nodded as they entered the shop.
An older man with puffy white hair looked up from a magazine he was reading.
“Hey, there, Jackson. I just opened for the season last week and you’re the first person to set foot in here.
” The guy looked at Christina. His gaze fell to Jackson’s hand on her arm.
“I sure didn’t expect to see you, especially not today. ”
“Last-minute idea, Francis,” Jackson said as he let her go.
The older man tensed, something unspoken passing between them. “You want to take a boat out?”
“Yeah.”
“With all the rain recently, the river is really rough today,” Francis said. “So choppy I don’t think you’ll have much luck catching any fish. I’d advise against it.”
“See.” Christina gave Jackson a hard look. “I told you. This is a bad idea.”
Jackson narrowed his eyes and then cut his gaze back to Francis. “We’re not fishing, but we need a boat. We want something fast.” He pulled a credit card from his wallet and handed it to the guy.
Too bad they didn’t have cash.
Leaving a digital trail when you were on the run wasn’t smart.
“Okay. How about the Stingray?” Francis asked. “Gets up to sixty knots.”
Jackson shook his head. “Too big. We need something smaller.”
“Smaller means slower,” Francis said. “You’re going to have choose between size and speed.”
“Unfortunately, I guess so. We can’t take the Stingray. It’s too wide.”
Wider and bigger were better in her opinion. “Too wide for what?” she asked.
“I’ll explain on the boat,” Jackson said through clenched teeth. “Since we’re in a hurry.”
Francis frowned. “I guess take number two.” The older man swiped the credit card and gave it back to Jackson along with a key. “The Hamble Dory.”
Christina went to the entrance of the shop and looked around outside.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Jackson said to her.
She raised her palms in mock surrender. “Where am I going to go? Down into the sewer?”
A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth and then his lips flattened again. “Thanks, Francis.” Jackson signed the receipt. “You need to close the shop for a bit. Go on a break and grab the keys to the other boats. Take them with you. Have a long lunch somewhere on me.”
Everything was calm and quiet outside the shop. No traffic or passersby. She strode back to the counter.
Francis looked at the receipt and raised his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s a generous tip.”
“The tip is for you to close up,” Jackson said, his voice firm. “Right now. Got it?”
Giving a wary nod, Francis locked the register. “Unwelcome company on the way?”
“Possibly.” Jackson’s tone was grim. “It’s safer for you if you’re not here.”