Chapter 22
Quentin
It had only been two minutes since Julia left my office, but Stone’s voice continued to echo in the back of my mind. “I told you so!” It wasn’t a premonition as much as my subconscious warning me. A warning that would remain until we solved this mystery.
I dialed Stone.
He answered in a whisper. “Yes?”
“I wanted to go over a few things but I can tell it’s a bad time.”
Stone kept his voice low. “I’m on a stakeout, a good hour’s drive outside the city. Can it wait until morning?”
“Yeah, not a problem.” I hung up.
The intercom on the desk phone buzzed. Security. I hit the button. “Go ahead.”
“Pull up camera twelve.”
I maneuvered my PC’s mouse and clicked a window. The screen showed me a grid of small boxes and I selected camera twelve. “What am I looking at?”
“Julia’s been sitting in her vehicle. Nothing unusual there, but notice that blue sedan about ten spots down?”
“I see it.”
“That guy seems to be keeping an eye on her. He’s just sitting there. I figured if she pulls out, and he follows her, you’d want to know.”
“Good call, thank you.” I disconnected and watched. Julia appeared to be talking on her phone. The blue sedan didn’t move until after Julia ended her call and pulled out. I buzzed security.
“Boss?”
“What camera shows the parking structure exit towards the street?”
“Pull up camera twenty-eight. That’ll show you when they leave, and which way they turn. I’m trying to get a plate number, but the sedan has photo-resistant license plate lenses. Video and picture killers.”
“And the driver?”
“Hoodie, glasses, and tinted side windows. I couldn’t get a good shot.”
“Okay, I’m on it.” I didn’t bother pulling up camera twenty-eight. If I bothered to confirm the obvious, they’d have too far of a head start to catch them.
I sprinted to the elevators.
With Stone too far out of town to be of any use, and nobody else I could trust, I sped out of the parking structure, and headed on the route I knew Julia would take to go home. If she wasn’t going home, I’d be screwed.
And so would she if the driver meant her harm.
What could this mean?
Something had been off when Julia and I discussed Big Sal and the Moretti family.
I'd watched her face carefully—the way her jaw tightened when I mentioned the don's name, the brief flicker in her eyes before she smoothed her expression back to professional curiosity.
She was making it sound academic, detached.
But her body language told a different story.
This was personal to her. I'd stake my life on it.
Did she know more than she was letting on?
Was she a threat?
My instincts said no. But if someone had tried to poison her—or use her to poison me—it meant she'd gotten too close to something dangerous. Whoever was gunning for me had shifted their attention to her.
But why go after my assistant? What had she uncovered?
There had to be more to this story, pieces I wasn't seeing yet.
I ran my second red light, heart pounding as I scanned the road ahead. Finally, I spotted her car in the distance, turning into a Crimson Rooster parking lot.
Relief flooded through me. She was okay. For now.
I eased off the gas slightly, hanging back far enough that she wouldn't spot me. But I wasn't letting her out of my sight until I knew she was safe.
The blue sedan turned into the parking lot of a nearby liquor store.
I stopped at an auto parts store where I could see both cars.
From my vantage point, and also from the position the sedan was parked, we’d lose sight of Julia when she went around the back side of the fast-food restaurant.
But, once in line for the drive thru, she had no choice but to come out on Sixth, where it’s impossible to turn any direction except right.
That gave me a minute.
I called Stone again, but he didn’t answer.
He had the ability to track my cell phone, so I left him a message and told him that if I didn’t check in every fifteen or twenty minutes, he should expect the worst. “And Stone, unless you’re on a top priority mission, drop it.
Head back into the city. This might develop into something bigger than I can handle on my own. ”
Next, I called Dino, but the call went to his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. That was one of our ironclad rules. He’d have a hard time explaining to this department head or internal affairs why he had a voice message from Quentin Vanetti giving him orders.
Finally, I called Julia. Maybe I should have called her first, but the Crimson Rooster was notorious for long wait times. Part of the price of being so popular. She didn’t pick up. Instead of leaving a voice message, I text messaged her. Call me. ASAP.
Several minutes later, she pulled onto the street. The blue sedan followed, and I hung back six car lengths, keeping the blue sedan in sight.
Ahead, Julia drove casually—probably munching fries, music playing, phone ignored. Oblivious.
Then she yanked the wheel hard and shot into an alley, driving like a Fast & Furious stunt driver.
She'd made him. Smart girl.
The sedan accelerated, giving chase. No more hiding. I floored it and followed them in.
Halfway down the alley—a muzzle flash.
My chest seized. If this guy was any good—and he had to be—Julia was already dead. The thought punched the air from my lungs.
No. Not her.
I had to catch this bastard. For Julia. For myself. Whoever wanted her dead wanted me dead too.
Three teenagers on skateboards darted into my path. I slammed the brakes, screeching to a halt. My palm hit the horn.
"Move! MOVE!"
The blue sedan's tires screamed as he peeled out.
The kids scattered. I gunned it, heart hammering—
Julia's car shot out of the alley onto Green Boulevard.
She's alive.
The relief nearly made me dizzy. But a high-speed chase with a professional killer wasn't the time to celebrate. She power-slid onto the boulevard, nearly clipping a minivan, corrected the oversteer, and weaved through traffic like she was driving a stolen car.
Highway 24. She was heading for the highway.
I pressed harder on the gas.
Whether she was merely trying to escape or luring her would-be assassin out of the city for other reasons, it was impossible to tell. I didn’t know whether she’d seen me or not, and she wasn’t answering her phone.
I flew past a traffic department sign—Don’t TEXT and DRIVE—going 115 miles per hour. So much for safety. The next warning sign was about seat belts. Buckle Up—It’s the Law.
Not an issue.
I tried calling Julia again, but the call went straight to voicemail.
The straightaway opened up ahead. The blue sedan accelerated and rammed Julia's car.
She careened off the road, tires kicking up dirt. I gunned it and slammed into her attacker's rear quarter panel.
Everything slowed down, crystal clear.
Julia's car plowed into the meadow and jerked to a stop against a log. I clipped the sedan's rear end, sending it into a sideways skid. We both slowed. I hammered the brakes while reaching for my .45 Glock. More stopping power than a 9mm, and in a gunfight, subtlety was overrated.
The assassin chose the 9mm.
Three sharp cracks. Bullets spiderwebbed my passenger window but didn't penetrate. My car's reinforced glass would hold—for now. A skilled shooter could shatter it with five or six well-placed rounds at close range.
He wouldn't get the chance.
I threw open my door and crouched behind it, using it as cover. Julia's car sat directly in my line of fire—one stray bullet and I'd kill the woman I was trying to save.
No room for error.
I steadied my grip, lined up the shot through the sedan's driver-side door. Unless the car was armored—unlikely—I had a chance of punching through. I angled myself to minimize exposure while keeping my aim true.
Three quick rounds. Center mass where the driver should be.
The shots echoed across the meadow.
We traded several more volleys.
The 9mm gave him capacity—nearly double my rounds. But my .45 had stopping power. It could punch through an unarmored car door and still deliver a killing blow.
He figured that out fast.
Staying put meant getting shot. Leaving cover meant getting shot. And a prolonged firefight in an open meadow meant sirens, cops, witnesses.
He emptied his magazine and peeled out.
I sent my last two rounds through his rear window as he fishtailed across the northbound lanes, cut through the median, and sped back toward the city.
If I'd hit him during the exchange, it didn't show. He drove steady, fast, disappearing into traffic.
I watched the highway for signs of his return—nothing. Just the usual flow: beat-up pickups, a rusty minivan, a flatbed hauling junkers.
He was gone.
I holstered the .45 and turned toward Julia's car, pulse still hammering.
Time to make sure she was alive.
I found her sitting upright and surveying the sauce splattered across her designer coat. My heart squeezed. She wouldn't quite meet my eyes.
“Quentin.” Relief flooded her voice. “You're a sight for sore eyes.”
She climbed out through the window—the door hopelessly jammed against a rotted log. “I'm grateful, but where did you come from?”
I held out my hand to help her find solid footing. “Security caught someone stalking you in the parking garage. I figured you were heading home and took the most likely route. Caught up right before you pulled into The Crimson Rooster.”
She glanced back at her wrecked car. “Guess that was a mistake.”
“Nashville Hot?”
Her gaze dropped to the sauce covering her clothes. “Damn! I just bought this outfit.”
“You're lucky to be alive.” I nodded toward her car. “I'm guessing you weren't armed.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That's going to change.”
“Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.”
She blinked at me. “What?”
“Better to face a jury for illegally carrying than have six pallbearers carry your—”
“Coffin.” A tired smile touched her lips. “Got it. Sorry, I'm just... frazzled.” The smile faded. “Why does someone want to kill me?”