He seemed edgy when he saw Samantha. Will couldn’t blame him.
She’d almost reached the tan Buick and Shorty, when she stopped beneath a large willow tree and leaned with her palms against the thick trunk to stretch her calves. Very nice calves, he noticed.
The man beside the Buick, he saw, was noticing, as well.
Just then, another man came out of the rest home, this one taller and a little less stocky, but definitely muscular. He had a kid with him, a small boy wearing a Mariners baseball cap and a navy backpack over his red jacket. The kid had the cap pulled down so low his ears stood out like thumbs from his head; a pair of headphones hung around his neck; and he cradled what looked like a CD player in his hands.
The man had one hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked around, and noticed Samantha stretching.
Samantha straightened and started jogging again—right toward them. The man’s steps slowed as he and the boy approached the Buick, and Shorty, who was waiting there.
Samantha didn’t appear to notice as she jogged in their direction, but Will had the distinct impression she was watching them. That she’d been waiting for them to come out. And if she kept running she’d connect with them in a matter of—
“What the—”
To his amazement, Samantha tripped and fell. She tumbled onto the lawn just feet from them and grabbed at her ankle. From where he sat, he heard her cry out in pain.
He jerked on the handcuff, wanting to go to her. What had the woman been thinking, locking him up like this?
The two men seemed startled, almost leery of her, and glanced around as if looking for something or someone. The quiet neighborhood dozed in the warm fall afternoon sun as Samantha cried and hugged her ankle.
After a moment, they hesitantly stepped over to her. No doubt her skimpy attire helped convince them.
Will couldn’t hear what was being said even though the driver’s window of the Firebird was still down, but it was obvious they were offering some sort of assistance. The short one helped her to her feet. The second man released the boy to take her other arm.
She appeared afraid to put weight on her injured ankle. Slowly, she attempted a step.
Then everything happened so fast Will wasn’t even sure later what he’d seen. Maybe because he was hoping he’d just imagined it.
He watched in horror as Samantha dropped Shorty with a swift kick, sent the other man sprawling face-first onto the grass with some sort of karate chop, and grabbed the kid.
In the blink of an eye, Samantha was running back toward the Firebird with the boy in her arms. She opened the driver’s door, tossed him the kid and leaped in.
The Firebird engine roared, and she peeled out, throwing gravel and dust as she whipped a cookie in the middle of the street, then took off in a tremulous thunder of engine and speed that flattened him against his seat.
“Wow,” the kid said.
“Samantha?” Will asked quietly, the way he might talk to a disturbed patient on a mental ward. “I know this probably isn’t a good time, either, but could you tell me what’s going on here?”
The Firebird screamed around a corner. “I’d suggest you get the boy buckled in,” she said calmly. “You might want to do the same.”
Being handcuffed to the dash didn’t make the task easy, but as she took the next corner on two wheels, Will managed to get the kid buckled in between them on the bench seat before the Firebird rocked back down on all four tires. He snapped his own seat belt as she took a gravel-throwing turn.
“Nice car,” the kid said.
Will looked down at him. The boy was all of five, with large brown eyes that twinkled in a positively angelic face. Along with the Mariners cap and red jacket, he wore faded worn jeans, a Pokémon T-shirt and sneakers. The headphones still hung around his neck, with a cord that ran to the CD player cradled in his lap on the small navy backpack. Unlike Will, the boy didn’t seem all that surprised by this turn of events.
Will turned to catch sight of the Buick coming up fast. Great. “Just tell me you don’t kidnap children. I mean, this isn’t just some random thing you do, right? You know this child, right?” He looked expectantly at her, waiting.
“Only from a faxed photo of him. He’s cuter in person.” She shot the kid a quick smile, then went back to her driving, which Will was thankful for. “His name is Zackarias Lucien O’Brien, age five-and-a-half, of Seattle, Washington. That about covers it.”
“Just ‘Zack,”’ the boy said quickly. “Just Zack” didn’t appear in the least upset as Sam took a turn on two wheels.
“Am I missing something here?” Will asked.
Samantha turned onto a paved two-lane and tromped down on the gas. The car took off like a rocket.
“What is under the hood?” he yelled over the roar of the engine.
She shot him a grin. “You like it?”
Not really. He liked it when he thought she was someone else: a nice, single woman who drove a Lexus.
“Sorry about the cuffs, but I couldn’t let you ruin my show.”
She made the whole thing sound theatrical and almost innocent. He nodded, telling himself again that she’d have a good explanation for this. It was just getting harder to believe.
She glanced over her shoulder. He looked back, too. The Buick wasn’t far behind them now.
“And those men?” he enquired.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” She looked over at Zack. “Who are those guys?”
He shrugged, too. “They said they were friends of my birth mother’s.”
She raised a brow as she looked at the boy.
Will wished she’d keep her eyes on the road. Not that she didn’t seem capable of doing any number of things while driving. “Where exactly are we headed?” he asked, as the flat landscape flashed by in a blur and he realized they’d left Wolf Point far behind.
“Seattle, eventually. Right now—” she glanced into her rearview mirror “—anyplace where they aren’t,” she said, indicating the Buick gaining on them.
Seattle? He thought about telling her that Seattle didn’t fit into his plans. But what she did next made him lose the thought.
He watched her reach under the seat, pull out a handgun and lay it across her sun-browned thighs. He told himself he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. How could he have been so wrong about a woman?
He wondered what Jennifer Finley was doing right now.
“You can just drop me off when you get the chance,” he said—not that she seemed to be listening. “Anywhere would do.” He noted that the Firebird was pegged at over a hundred miles an hour and that the Buick was right behind them.
“See
