Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Asher gripped the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Cici sat beside him, her arms crossed tightly over that ugly sweatshirt he’d made her wear.
She’d been griping since they’d peeled out of the alley—something about how he barked orders like she was a dog, not a person. He didn’t bother defending himself. Words were a waste when every nerve in his body screamed focus. The job was simple: keep her alive, get her and the necklace to Maine.
Emotions didn’t factor in. There was certainly no place for the electricity still buzzing through him after that mind-blowing kiss.
That reaction was as distracting as all the feelings he’d carried for her since high school.
His irrational belief that they belonged together had led to his impetuous invitation to the prom, which led to the most humiliating moment of his life.
Well, one of them. Funny how Cici Wright had twice had a front-row seat to his humiliation.
None of that mattered right now. Normally, he had no problem shoving his personal preferences to the back burner when he was on the job. Cici had his thoughts misfiring, his attention diverted.
“You don’t have to act like I’m some grunt in your army,” she muttered, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not one of your lackeys.”
“I don’t have lackeys.” And if he did, she certainly wouldn’t be one of them. “Stop talking.”
His gaze darted to the mirror. A black sedan lingered two cars back, pacing them. Could’ve been nothing, but with their luck so far, he doubted it.
He took a hard left onto a side street, tires spinning against the asphalt.
Beside him, Cici gasped. He did his best to ignore her.
The sedan followed, keeping its distance. Another turn—right this time, cutting through a narrow stretch lined with industrial buildings.
A few more cars separated them from the sedan now, but it was still following.
Beside him, Cici tapped on her phone, the screen’s glow lighting up her face—pinched, annoyed, oblivious.
He should’ve ditched that thing the second they left the hotel. “Give me that,” he said, voice low and clipped.
She clutched her phone tighter, shooting him a glare. “You’ve got your own phone.”
He snatched it from her grip with a quick twist.
She yelped, lunging to grab it back, but he held it tightly, lowered his window, and sent the cell phone sailing into the twilight.
“Are you insane?” she shouted, her voice pitched high with shock and fury. “That was my phone! My life—”
“We’re being followed.” The sedan was still there. “They’re tracking you.”
She twisted in her seat, looking behind. At the car, or at her lost phone? She turned her glare on him. “How do you know they’re not tracking your phone, huh? You’re not exactly invisible.”
“They don’t know who I am.” He refused to let his irritation loose in his voice. “You’re the one they’re after.”
“My phone has a VPN! There’s no way they were tracking me. You just threw out my entire contact list, my photos, everything—for no reason!”
That stuff was probably all stored on the cloud. All she needed to do was plop down another thousand bucks for a new phone. It wasn’t like it was out of her price range.
Anyway, a virtual private network might mask her IP address, but it would have no effect on her phone’s location services, nor would it keep it from pinging cell phone towers.
“We’re being followed,” he said again, slower this time, letting the words sink in. “Unless your phone is more valuable than that necklace in your bag—or your life—let it go.”
She huffed, muttering something under her breath. He missed most of it, but picked up on the words arrogant and jerk.
Not that he cared what she thought.
He had bigger worries at the moment, like the fact that killers were on their tail. His truck had become a trap.
“Plug in the address for the train station.” He nodded at his phone on the console between them.
She snatched it. “Maybe I should toss this one, too. Even the score.”
“Do it”—the threat was implied in his tone—“and you’ll find yourself on your butt on the sidewalk about two seconds later.” Which would get him fired, no question.
And get her killed.
No matter how annoying she was, she needed his protection.
She jabbed at his cell phone screen with more force than necessary, still muttering under her breath. The map on his screen changed. They were ten minutes out if the traffic didn’t choke them—and their pursuers didn’t corner them.
“There,” she said, tossing the phone back into the console. “Happy now?”
He took another sharp turn to test the sedan, hoping he’d been wrong.
But a few moments later, it followed.
The train station was their best shot. First, they needed to ditch their tail. Then they would ditch his truck, blend into the crowd, and disappear. Cici could pout all she wanted. He wasn’t here to win her approval. He was here to keep her breathing. That was the job. That was all that mattered.
Even if every word out of her mouth made him want to grind his teeth to dust.
A few minutes later, Asher floored the gas, merging onto the highway with a growl from the truck’s engine, the Philly skyline shrinking in the rearview.
The black sedan stuck to them like a shadow, four cars back. No doubt they were working a plan to corner him and Cici.
The sign for Thirtieth Street Station indicated it was a half mile away. He hated to abandon his truck, but he saw no other choice. He kept his speed steady, then at the last second, yanked the wheel hard, cutting across two lanes to hit the exit ramp.
Tires screeched, horns blared, and Cici gasped, clutching the door handle.
“Warn me next time!” she snapped.
His eyes locked on the mirror.
The sedan swerved, barely making the ramp, its headlights flaring as it closed the gap.
Dang it. They weren’t shaking.
He hit the gas, barreling down the off-ramp and through a red light, ignoring the chorus of honks.
Cici yelped, but he did his best to ignore her.
He spotted a bridge ahead, its underbelly cluttered with construction gear, and made a snap call.
He cranked the wheel, pulling an illegal U-turn beneath the overpass, then wedged the truck between a rusted dumpster and a hulking yellow backhoe. He cut the engine.
“Out,” he barked, already grabbing his duffel from the back seat. “Now.”
Cici fumbled with her seatbelt, her green eyes wide. “What are we doing?” She slid out of the truck.
He snagged her suitcase and shoved it toward her.
His duffel doubled as a backpack, and he shrugged it on, leaving him hands-free and ready if those guys caught up with them. “Let’s go.”
She kept pace as he bolted under the bridge, boots pounding the cracked pavement. The air stank of oil and concrete, the construction zone a maze of orange cones and bundles of rebar. It was deserted at eight o’clock at night, so there was one small favor.
He weaved past a tractor, his pulse steady but his gut churning. The sedan hadn’t reappeared yet. With any luck, it had continued on the surface street.
But he wouldn’t bet his life or Cici’s on luck.
They crossed the last stretch of gravel, ducked under a flimsy orange temporary fence, and slipped into the glow of the Thirtieth Street Station’s grand entrance—old, massive, all stone and arches.
Inside, the cavernous main hall swallowed them, its high ceiling echoing with footsteps and muffled announcements.
Marble gleamed under warm lights, signs pointing every which way—Amtrak, food court, SEPTA—the local trains.
He cataloged the space fast: exits to the left and right, crowds thick enough to blend into, ticket booths straight ahead.
He strode toward Amtrak, Cici keeping pace with her suitcase rolling beside her.
At the booth, a bored-looking guy with a scruffy beard glanced up. Asher slid cash across the counter. “Two tickets to Boston. Rear seats against a wall if you’ve got them.”
Cici leaned in, her voice cutting through. “Are there any private compartments?”
The guy shot her a perplexed look, and Asher rolled his eyes and smirked, telling the clerk it was fine to ignore her.
The clerk said, “Sorry, just coach. Next train’s in fifteen.” He tapped at his screen, then handed Asher the tickets. “Back row’s yours.”
“Thanks, man.” Asher pocketed the tickets and stepped away, turning to Cici, who was glaring at him as if he’d insulted her. Which, okay, maybe he had.
“Couldn’t we have gone to the airport?” She shifted her suitcase to her other hand. “We’d get home faster.”
“You’re lucky we made it this far.” He steered her toward the platforms, scanning the crowd—business suits, college kids, a janitor pushing a mop. No thugs, as far as he could tell. “Let’s go.” The giant space was too big to properly surveil. He needed more cover.
He kept his pace brisk, his mind spinning. That sedan—it shouldn’t have found them so quickly. He’d ditched her phone. But if they had been following her cell phone signal, how had they tapped in so fast?
This wasn’t some lowlife trying to cover his tracks. These guys had resources. Tracking a phone that quickly… That wasn’t average-Joe stuff. It was connected, organized.
How many enemies were out there?
He glanced at Cici, whose jaw was set despite the fear in her eyes. She was stubborn, opinionated, and far too attractive to slip beyond anyone’s notice, despite the cheap wig and ugly sweatshirt.
The train was their best shot—public, crowded, a straight ride to Boston, where he could regroup and figure out who these thugs were.
But an itch between his shoulder blades had him scanning the space. Connected and organized… Were enemies here even now, watching?
“Stay close,” he muttered, more to himself than Cici.
The platform sign blinked above: Boston. Twelve minutes to go. Surely he could keep her alive until they boarded and got out of this cursed city.