not going to argue the point now, but I’ll tell you what—” disdain underscored his savage tone. “—when you level with me, I’ll level with you.”
Having learned long ago that there was no way to deal with irrationality, she stared out the window at the dark landscape as it flashed past. Being called a liar was a new experience and one she couldn’t say she particularly liked.
But none of that mattered. None of it mattered at all, if she could only find her brother and make certain he was safe.
“What, no elaborate explanations?” Carson taunted. “Surely Alex gave you a better cover story than that.”
“Enough.” Turning to look at him, she was careful not to show her teeth. “If you really believed I was a criminal, you would have searched me for weapons before allowing me in your truck. You’d need a hell of a lot more proof of some kind of crime before you could legally arrest me.”
He swore under his breath. She continued as if she hadn’t heard him.
“So, in the spirit of honesty—and legality—” she allowed a trace of her own anger to show in her voice “—why don’t you tell me why you’re looking for my brother? Or I’ll start to believe—” she met his stare directly, ignoring the cynicism she saw there “—that you yourself are engaged in some sort of illegal activity. I won’t allow you to threaten my family.”
“Won’t allow?”
Though she’d spoken one of the most important creeds of the Pack, he didn’t seem to recognize it, which was good.
“No.”
He smiled. “Short and sweet. I like that.”
Crossing her arms, she waited. Finally he shrugged. The look he gave her was laced with mistrust.
“Ever heard of Hades’ Claws?”
Puzzled, she mentally reviewed every magazine article she’d read, every television show she’d watched, in preparation for this trip. “No.”
His mouth thinned. “Right. The Wolf is your brother, but you don’t even recognize the name of his biker gang?”
Biker gang? No way. Not Alex. Like her, he’d gone to college, gotten a good job. He worked in marketing, with a large Long Island firm.
“You must be mistaken,” she said, her certainty showing in the flatness of her normally melodic voice. “Alex doesn’t even own a motorcycle.”
“Then why did you call him The Wolf? And why were you looking for him in a biker bar?”
She frowned. “The Wolf has been his nickname ever since third grade. And I heard he’d been to that bar, that’s all.”
With a quick motion, he peeled off his right glove, keeping his left hand on the wheel. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a much-folded sheet of paper and handed it to her.
Though grainy, the black-and-white photo in the center of the page was unmistakable. Alex.
Quickly she scanned the text. An FBI datasheet, the paper went on to describe how a biker gang, Hades’ Claws, had committed numerous crimes, including several drug-related murders up and down the East Coast. Her brother was believed to be one of its high-ranking members and was wanted for questioning.
Feeling numb, she handed the paper back to Carson.
Accepting it, he kept his bleak stare on the darkened road ahead.
“Time to share again,” he said. “Since you know why I’m looking for The Wolf, now you can tell me who shot at us.”
She raised a brow. “Why do you think I would have that information?”
“You obviously were forewarned. You knew when to hit the ground.”
“I heard the gun cock.”
“Right,” he said. “Who was the shooter?”
“I really don’t know.” She shrugged, careful to keep her expression neutral, while her head spun and her heart ached. Was the datasheet right? Was her brother hiding because he’d turned to crime? Or, as her premonitions suggested, was he in real danger?
“Damn.” Carson went still, focusing on the rearview mirror.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw headlights approaching fast on the otherwise deserted road.
“Are they—”
“Hold on.” His low-voiced order was terse. He accelerated. The Tahoe leaped forward. The speedometer crept past eighty, then eighty-five. Ninety. The cab began to vibrate. She hoped that the road would remain straight and flat; at this speed, the slightest curve might send them into a skidding rollover.
Checking to make sure her seat belt was securely fastened, Brenna glanced over her shoulder. If they were going over ninety, the other vehicle had to be traveling in excess of one hundred, for it still seemed to be steadily gaining on them.
“I can’t kill the headlights.” Carson swore again.
A green highway sign loomed ahead. Wicket Hollow—One Mile.
“I’m gonna take it,” he said. Still, he kept his foot on the accelerator, his hands locked in place on the steering wheel.
“Not at this speed. If we crash—”
“We won’t.”
Oddly enough, his calm certainty appeased her. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to relax her death grip on the door handle.
She told herself not to be afraid. Yet one thing kept running through her mind. If they crashed and she was mortally injured, she would be unable to keep from changing. She would have to drag herself away from the crash scene and die in her natural state far from human eyes. This was the law of her people. To do otherwise would risk bringing discovery and possible ruin upon them all.
Closing her eyes, Brenna began to plan. Just in case.
“There’s the exit.”
At his words, she opened her eyes. “Too fast,” she snapped, as they blasted past the sign and left the highway.
“Seventy-five.” Satisfaction sounded in Carson’s voice. “One curve, then, straight shot.”
She sat up. They were on the access road. Trees blocked the highway from view.
“Are they gone?”
“Not yet.” Violence still sounded in his voice. “There.” Pointing to a dirt road that wound into the trees, he killed the headlights and slowed. Pulling into a thicket, he parked.
Then they waited, the sound of their mingled breathing harsh and loud in the quiet interior.
A moment later a vehicle sped past, too quickly in the darkness for Brenna to make out its type.
