King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

This was the reverse of what the pair normally did. She usually drove the car, like she was piloting a ride at Daytona. And Sean hung on for dear life and mumbled his prayers, but without much confidence that they would be answered.

There was a good reason for his driving tonight, and for the last twenty-one nights. Michelle was simply not herself, at least not yet. She was getting there, only more slowly than she wanted.

He looked at her. “How you doing?”

She stared straight ahead. “I am armed. So you ask me that one more time and I will shoot you, Sean.”

“I’m just concerned, okay?”

“I know that, Sean. And I appreciate it. But I’ve been out of rehab for three weeks. I think I’m good to go. And that’s what your concern can do: Go.”

“Your injuries were life threatening, Michelle. You almost didn’t make it. You nearly bled out. Trust me, I was there for every second of it. So three weeks out of rehab after something like that is actually not very long.”

Michelle touched her lower back and then her upper thigh. There were scars there. There would always be scars there. The memory of how she had come by these injuries was as vivid as the initial knife thrust into her back. It had been done by someone she thought was an ally.

Yet she was alive. And Sean had been with her every step of the way. Only now his hovering was starting to annoy her.

“I know. But it was two full months of rehab. And I’m a fast healer. You of all people should understand that by now.”

“It was just close, Michelle. Way too close.”

“How many times have I almost lost you?” she said, shooting him a glance. “It’s part of what we do. It comes with the territory. If we want safe, we have to get into another line of work.”

Sean looked out through the windshield as the rain continued bucketing down. The night was cold, gloomy, the clouds shifty as a coyote. They were driving through a particularly lonely area of northern Virginia on their way back from meeting with a former client, Edgar Roy. They had saved him from a death sentence. He had been as suitably appreciative as any high-functioning autistic savant with severely limited social skills could be.

“Edgar looked good,” said Michelle.

“He looked really good considering the alternative of lethal injection,” replied Sean, who seemed relieved by the change in topic.

Sean took a turn too fast on the rain-slicked, curvy road and Michelle grabbed her armrest for support.

“Slow it down,” she warned.

He feigned astonishment. “Words I never thought I would hear leave your mouth.”

“I drive fast because I know how to.”

“I’ve got the injuries and therapy bills to prove otherwise,” he shot back.

She gave him a scowl. “So, what now, since we’ve finished all the work on Edgar Roy’s matter?”

“We continue our careers as private investigators. Both Peter Bunting and the U.S. government were very generous with their payments to us, but we’re socking that away to either retire on or spend on a rainy day.”

Michelle looked to the stormy sky. “Rainy day? Then let’s go buy a boat. We might need it to get home.”

Sean would have said something back, but he was suddenly preoccupied.

“Damn!”

He cut the wheel hard to the left and the Land Cruiser spun sideways across the slick roadway.

“Turn into it,” advised Michelle calmly.

Sean turned into the spin and quickly regained control of the vehicle. He applied the brakes and brought them to a stop on the shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped.

“You mean who was that,” answered Michelle.