sending a ripple of revulsion to her core. “But because you’ve been so helpful, I’ll let you live. For now.”
Chelsea released a breath of relief…too soon.
After snatching the key from the ignition, the gunman grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the back of the Caddy. He keyed open the trunk and turned to her. “Get in.”
Chelsea eyed the trunk, and her knees wobbled. “Please, just…just let me g—”
“Get in!” he roared, pointing the gun at her.
“But you said—”
The convict grabbed her, his arms pinning hers to her sides, and shoved her toward the open trunk.
“No! Please!” She fought him, fought hard, clawing, biting, struggling. But in the end, all she got for her efforts were another smack on the head from the butt of the gun and scraped legs when he forced her into the trunk.
Chelsea gasped in terror as he slammed the trunk closed and she was swallowed by darkness. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and fought to remain calm. She could get out of here. She had to. Just think. Stay calm and think… .
As long as she didn’t give him a reason to shoot her, she still had a chance to figure out how to escape. Tears stinging her eyes, she sent up a prayer…and started searching for a way out of Ethyl’s trunk.
Edward Brady stomped back to the driver’s seat of the old Cadillac, chafing his cold arms and grumbling. Of all the women and all the cars that stopped at the gas station that afternoon, he had to pick the troublemaker who was driving on fumes. He hiked up the jeans that sagged on his hips, then dropped onto the front seat and scowled. Stupid girl’s pants didn’t even fit.
Squeezing the steering wheel, he glared through the windshield and fumed over the bad turn of luck. He was a sitting duck, stranded here on the highway, and the dark clouds rolling in warned his luck was about to get much bleaker. He needed a new plan.
He slapped the steering wheel and bit out a blistering curse. He’d spent months plotting this day, planning his escape, and thanks to stupid rotten luck and the bitch with the too-big jeans, his dream of freedom was all going in the toilet. If he were caught now, he’d be put on trial for killing those cops. In Texas, that meant the death penalty.
Brady shuddered. He refused to get caught now. He’d come too far, had too much at risk. He needed transportation, a hideout that was off the cops’ radar, weapons, food…and he needed it fast. When that storm hit, if he didn’t have shelter, he could die of exposure. And wouldn’t that be sorry freakin’ irony?
In the trunk, the woman started banging on the lid and shouting for help.
Brady gritted his teeth. Maybe he should kill her and be done with it. “Shut up!” he yelled. “I’m trying to think out here!”
Movement in the rearview mirror caught his attention. A truck was approaching. Half of him wanted the truck to stop. He could shoot the driver and take the truck.
But if the truck’s driver heard the woman’s shouts for help, he’d be screwed.
Brady slumped down in the seat. Just drive on by, pal. Just drive on by.
But the truck slowed as it passed.
The banging from the trunk got louder. “Help! Someone help! Please.”
Turning the ignition key one notch to access the battery power, Brady opened the window, switched on the radio and turned it up full blast.
Jake narrowed his gaze on the ancient Cadillac sitting on the shoulder of the isolated highway. As he drove past the parked car, he spotted a man in the driver’s seat, slumped low, his expression dour. Car trouble? If so, the poor schmuck could be waiting hours for a wrecker out here. Big trouble, what with the winter storm approaching.
Jake’s conscience kicked him. Be the Change You Wish To See had been his mother’s mantra, paraphrasing Gandhi, as he grew up. She’d lived by those words. And died by them.
No matter how pressed for time he was, trying to reach the hospital before the snow hit, he had to at least offer the guy help. Pulling to the shoulder in front of the Caddy, Jake jammed his black Stetson on his head and cut his engine. The screech of electric guitars and chest-vibrating thump of bass wafted to him, growing exponentially louder when he opened his truck door to climb out. The dude in the Caddy had a heavy metal rock party for one blaring through open windows.
Before exiting the truck cab, Jake recalled the report of the escaped prisoner, took his SIG-Sauer 226 from the glove box and stuck the pistol in his jeans at the small of his back.
He scowled as he walked toward the Cadillac. Open windows when the temperature hovered in the low thirties? Maybe the guy was high on something. “Hey.” He shouted to be heard over the blaring music as he approached. He flashed a friendly smile and tugged the brim of his cowboy hat. “You need any help?”
The man, wearing a rather effeminate pink pullover sweater, shot Jake a wary look but didn’t answer, didn’t bother to turn his radio down. The bass continued thudding, and high-pitched voices screamed unintelligible lyrics.
“Can you turn the music down?” Jake asked, stopping a few steps from the driver’s door and stooping to peer through the window at the man behind the steering wheel. His feminine attire, his odd behavior and his unresponsiveness all rang warning bells in Jake’s head.
The man shook his head and leveled a flat stare.
“Are you having car trouble? Do you need help?” Jake asked, yelling to be heard over the ruckus.
“I’m fine.” The man shifted slightly and jerked his head toward the looming clouds. “You best move on before that storm hits.”
Jake lifted an eyebrow. “I could say the same for you.”
“Mind your own business,” the guy snarled.
Jake gritted his back teeth and swallowed his retort. If the surly jerk didn’t want his help…screw him.
He’d turned to leave when the pounding he’d assumed was the bass from the speakers sounded from the rear of the Caddy. From the trunk. He stopped and listened, turned back toward the driver.
Was that scream part of the music or…
His senses ramping into high alert, Jake edged toward the rear of the vehicle, reaching behind him for his pistol. The guy could be a drug smuggler. A human-smuggling coyote. Or about a half-dozen other options that sprang to mind. Jake divided his gaze between the man and the interior of the car as he did a fast check for weapons, for hiding passengers, for contraband as he crept backward to check the trunk. “Buddy, why don’t you step out of the car and—”
Jake’s adrenaline spiked.
An orange jumpsuit had been stuffed halfway under the backseat.
The escaped prisoner lunged from the car, whipping a gun out from under the pink pullover.
Instantly Jake raised his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. Spinning, he dived behind the protective cover of the Caddy’s rear bumper. The inmate—Edward
