Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"Some little shit-box," Roland snorted. "Gun it."

The bodyguard hit the gas so hard I rolled onto my injured wrist, hissing in pain. A moment later, I heard the whine of another engine, right behind our car.

"Did I say gun it?" Roland said.

"I'm going as fast as I can on this road. It's practically gravel. I'll wipe out if--"

"Goddamn it!" Roland said. "If you can't outrun--"

"I don't need to. What's he going to do? Run us off the road with that little thing?"

"I don't care! Hit the gas!"

He did. The rental car engine whined as it went full out, but I could hear it falling back slowly. Roland yelled that he knew his car went faster. The bodyguard slammed down the accelerator. My hand joggled and smack into . . . A lever.

I pushed it down. The trunk flew open just in time for me to see--

A gun. I didn't get a good look at the car or the driver, because all I saw was that gun sticking out the open driver's window, aimed squarely at me, as soon as the trunk popped, it fired, and I was sure I was dead. I have no idea who I thought would be shooting at a person in the trunk--or why. I just saw the gun and heard the shot, and I hit the floor of the trunk, flattened there as the lid flew open, and I may have imagined it, but I swear I heard a familiar, "Fuck!"

The rear tire blew. That's what he'd been aiming at, the trigger pulled before the trunk opened, his aim perfect even from the driver's seat of a moving vehicle. Even if I was wrong about hearing the curse, as soon as that tire blew, I knew it was Jack. I also knew I was in deep shit, because the trunk was open and--

The bodyguard hit the brakes. That's what happens when you blow out a tire. It's not so much the damage caused as the reaction to the noise. He hit the brakes, the car started to spin . . . and I was in the trunk with the lid wide open.

As I sailed out, I saw the car spinning toward me and I had a vision of myself splattered on the windshield. But physics was on my side, and I flew clear over the car. I landed on the grass at the side of the road, thankfully. Still, "soft landing" or not, I hit hard, skidding through the long grass before coming to rest without striking more than a few rocks and a small sapling. I'd feel those rocks and sapling in the morning, but for now all I could think was, Oh, my God, I'm alive!

That's when Roland's car crashed, so hard that the ground reverberated beneath me. I lifted my head to see it wrapped around a tree. Then I heard pounding footsteps--Jack running toward me, his face . . . I can't even describe the look on his face.

"I'm fine," I croaked, lifting my head so he could see me. "Go." I waved toward the wreck.

He hesitated, slowing. Then a groan came through the smashed windows of the car, and he jogged that way, gun out. I pushed to my feet carefully, not entirely sure that I'd be able to stand. But I did. No spinal damage. No broken leg. It just really, really hurt to move. As I looked around, dazed, I heard the squeal of tires. The flood of headlights followed and, as I blinked against them, something flashed in the long grass. A piece of the car, I was sure, but I stumbled toward it and found my knife.

"Hands up!" Jack was saying. "You reach down, Reggie? I'll put a fucking bullet through your skull."

I could say in the stress of the moment, Jack messed up and called him by his original name. He hadn't. He'd chosen his play.

I staggered over, knife in hand, making my way around the vehicle to the driver's side. I reached the back of the car and stopped. There was nothing in the driver's seat except a deflating airbag. I was about to call a warning to Jack when I saw a pale shape on the ground twenty feet away. I glanced at the shattered windshield, and then started for the heap of the bodyguard's body.

"Gun," Jack called.

I lifted the knife and even from fifteen feet away, in the near dark, I saw his eyes narrow. He'd rather I had a gun. There was no time to find one. Chances were, mine was in the pocket of the man I was limping toward.

"Hey!" a voice called.

It was Quinn, jogging down the embankment.

"Go with her," Jack called, pointing at me. Then, "Hands back up, Reggie. Now!"

I continued to the bodyguard. Quinn called for me to hold up, and I did slow, but I could tell the bodyguard wasn't going to leap up and attack me. He'd gone through the windshield, apparently being enough of a badass not to wear a seat belt. He'd then plowed headfirst into another tree. It seemed that whatever good luck I had during the crash had been siphoned from his reserve.

The impact of skull against tree at a high rate of speed . . . well, let's just say there was no chance this guy was getting up again. Still, I was careful as I dropped beside him, just in case your head could splat like an egg and you could somehow survive. I think that proves I may have been suffering from a tiny bit of shock.

"He's dead," I said.

"Um, yeah . . ." Quinn said.

I straightened--as best I could, which was about 75 percent.

"You okay?" Quinn asked.