Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Asher shifted in the cramped bed of the pickup truck, the metal floor beneath him digging into his back. The cover overhead trapped the heat, but a small gap let in a trickle of cool air, easing the stifling warmth that had roasted them before they’d started moving.
Cici had fallen asleep a few minutes after the truck started moving. She was curled up on the blanket, her back spooned against his ribs, her strawberry-blond hair fanning over his arm. It felt a little too good, having her tucked there, trusting him so completely.
He’d tried, at first, to strategize. Where would they end up, how would they get somewhere safe, how would they contact Forbes without leaving a trail, what should they do next?
He’d tried to work out how the thugs kept finding them.
Problem was, he didn’t have enough information.
After a while, exhaustion had dulled his mind.
He’d given up, closed his eyes, and let himself rest and savor Cici’s nearness.
He’d never been so affected by a woman. Even back in high school when he’d felt drawn to Cici, his attraction hadn’t been this powerful.
The feeling that should be long gone had grown stronger.
This wasn’t just attraction—he’d met his share of gorgeous women—but an overwhelming need to protect.
Not because he was being paid to, but because she was precious.
Soon enough, she’d wake up, and he’d need to climb back into his armor and guard himself. His attraction to Cici was unique, which meant she had a unique ability to wound him.
The wound she’d inflicted a decade before still smarted.
They’d been driving for more than an hour when the truck slowed and made a sharp turn, surprising him. He slid and bumped against the plywood, nearly toppling the pile.
He lifted his free arm to keep it from clattering on top of them, breathing through a sudden burst of adrenaline.
Somehow, Cici still slept.
When he was sure the pile was secure, he settled again.
Beneath him, the tires bounced over asphalt. The way grew rougher, twisting through bends, jostling them with every bump. Asher needed to be ready for whatever happened next. But for all he knew, they had an hour of driving ahead. Maybe more.
He hated to wake Cici, and they were still moving at a good clip. If they slowed to residential-area speed, he’d wake her up. That would be his clue.
After another twenty minutes, the truck slowed, turned suddenly, and rolled to a stop.
So much for Asher’s plan.
Doors opened, bringing the low murmur of voices, too low to make out until one cut through.
“Call the pizzas in,” a man said, “and I’ll pick them up. Be right back.”
Asher waited until the truck started moving again, then propped up on one elbow and gently shook Cici’s shoulder. “Cici, wake up.” He bent to whisper into her ear, prepared to drop his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.
Though it was too dark to see, he knew when she came awake by the tension in her shoulders.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Shh.” His voice was low, and she silenced. “Scooch up closer to the cab. Be ready.”
“For what?”
“Anything.”
He imagined her making a face at him or rolling her eyes, but it was too dark to see her reaction. After she moved, he pulled his Glock from its holster, the weight of it grounding him, then sat up, hunched over, and faced the tailgate, putting himself between Cici and danger.
She tugged on the blanket they’d used as a bed, and he shifted to let her slide it out from beneath him.
“Give me the sweatshirts,” she whispered.
He handed the items they’d used as pillows back to her, and she shoved them into his pack.
He settled the gun on his lap and waited.
They drove ten minutes over bumpy ground that only got bumpier, which felt wrong. What restaurant would be at the end of a road like this?
Asher’s pulse ticked up, every sound amplified—the rumble of the truck, the whir of the tires on asphalt, which shifted to something else. By the high-pitched, irregular pings off the bottom of the pickup, he guessed they were on a gravel or dirt road. They inched forward, and the engine cut off.
A door opened and slammed, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Then, silence. No traffic, no voices, just an eerie void that pressed against his ears. His body coiled, his Glock aimed at the tailgate.
Behind him, Cici’s breath was shallow. She could feel it, too.
Something was wrong.
A loud click, and the tailgate suddenly dropped, but nobody stood there. Fresh, cool air filled the stifling space.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The man’s voice was calm and steady.
Asher wasn’t sure about that, but he tucked his weapon beneath his T-shirt, the barrel cool against his skin. If necessary, he could fire through the material.
He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
A man peeked, barely in sight long enough for Asher to get a read on him. Tall, short brown hair, forties. He was out of sight again when he said, “You two comfortable back there?”
“Cozy as a coffin,” Asher said. “Though we need a candle for ambiance.”
The man chuckled. “I’ve got backup on speed dial.” He didn’t sound amused now. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can you promise the same?”
“Yes, sir.” The sir felt right. By the way the guy spoke, he was accustomed to being in charge.
“It wasn’t so much a shift when we turned off the highway, but the lack thereof. I didn’t secure the lumber well enough, and it moved around a lot on our way to Mass. Knew something wasn’t right.” The owner of the truck must’ve pressed a button because the cover whirred above, moving back slowly.
Asher sat up straight and inhaled the cool air, reveling in the breeze against his sweat-dampened skin. They were in a forest, surrounded by tall pines rising to the blue sky.
Behind him, Cici said, “That’s much better. Thank you.”
The man stood to the side. Though Asher couldn’t see a weapon from his vantage point, he assumed one was there.
Asher noted the way he held himself—shoulders back, weight balanced. Like a cop. This guy’s instincts were sharp, dangerously so.
“You two running from the law?” His question was casual, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or another. Asher doubted that.
“Not…exactly.” Asher hated lying, but he didn’t know this guy. Still, something about him felt… trustworthy. “We’ve been on the run.” He recited the short version of events, leaving out the stolen car and burning barn. “People are trying to kill us. We just needed a way out.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not one of those people out to hurt you, so you can holster that gun.”
Asher’s pulse skipped. He hadn’t shown the Glock, but this guy knew it was there. “You first.”
The man moved in front of the tailgate and held his arm out to his side, a gun dangled from it, proving Asher’s instincts correct.
Asher stowed his, moving carefully.
The man tucked his own away, his eyes flicking past him to Cici. “You okay back there?”
“Yes, sir.” Cici’s voice was steady despite the tension in the air. “Asher’s my bodyguard.”
“That story he just told… All that true?”
“Unfortunately.”
Asher met his gaze. “I’m Asher Rhodes. I’m with GBPA out of Boston. I’m going to get my credentials.” With slow and deliberate movement, he managed to shove his hand in his back pocket and pull out his wallet. From there, he extracted a business card. “Call them. Check me out.”
The man took the card. “Wait there.” He pocketed the card, then tapped on his cell. A moment later, he lifted it to his ear.
He hadn’t trusted Asher’s business card, had instead looked up GBPA’s number online. He was savvy, this guy.
The man said, “I’d like to speak to…”
“Bartlett,” Asher supplied.
“A man regarding the employment of Asher Rhodes,” the stranger said.
He hadn’t asked for Bartlett—still not trusting Asher—but Bartlett would be the one to answer the call.
In the silence, Cici started to say something, but Asher shook his head. He wanted to hear every word.
“Afternoon. Name’s Brady Thomas, chief of police in Nutfield, New Hampshire.”
Brady Thomas. Interesting name for a guy from New England. Asher figured he’d gotten a lot of ribbing over the years about that. No matter how good he was at football, he’d never be as good as the quarterback who flipped his name.
He was a cop, of course. And why not? Nothing else had gone right for him and Cici.
That wasn’t true, though. They were in New Hampshire, so that bet had paid off. And they’d shaken the killers, for now.
“I’ve got a guy here who claims to work for you,” Chief Thomas said. “Name’s Asher Rhodes. He’s with a woman called…” He listened, then looked at Cici. “Name?”
“Cecelia Wright.”
Thomas focused on the call again. “Yup, that’s her. They stowed away in the back of my pickup. I was in… Right. Took the kids to the historical sites down there.” The man took a few steps back, nodding at something Bartlett must’ve said. He motioned for Asher and Cici to get out of the truck.
Thank God. Asher’s legs were cramping. He scooted out first, then helped Cici down. She stretched like a cat, and he tried not to enjoy the sight. He failed.
They were on a narrow dirt road barely wide enough for the pickup, dwarfed by towering trees. Asher did a slow circle. Nothing but forest in every direction. The sun was low in the sky. They couldn’t be more than an hour from sunset.
“Don’t need a reward.” Thomas was talking to Bartlett, pacing a few feet away. “Just wanted to make sure…” More listening, then, “As long as I get it back or get… I see. Okay, I can do that.”
Hopefully, Bartlett was arranging for transportation, though at the moment, what Asher wanted more than anything else was dinner.
“Sure,” Thomas said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Asher took a few steps toward him. “Chief.”
The cop turned, spying Asher’s outstretched arm.
“Mind if I talk to him?”
He handed over the phone, and Asher said, “It’s me.”