Fate Book
“Dakota, don’t speak. Just listen.” His voice was hard and cold.
“No. You listen! I’m beyond pissed. Do you hear me? Whatever sick crap you and—”
“I’m not fucking around, Dakota. You need to listen.” I’d never heard him swear at me. Not once. Not even on the rare occasion when I’d done something stupid.
“Okay.” I tried to keep my voice from trembling.
“I spoke to the fire chief this morning. He said they thought the fire next door was caused by a curling iron.”
“Dad, I don’t underst—”
“They just called back. They found something. You need to get out of there.”
“But I—”
“Santiago is on his way. Do as he says. Do you hear me?”
“Dad, please…you need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Baby, I love you. Just…stay with Santiago until I come for you. He’ll keep you safe.”
The knock at the door was so loud that I jumped.
“Safe from who?” I asked, but the call had ended.
Santiago burst through the door, panting. “Why didn’t you answer?” he blurted, and then noticed the look of horror on my face. His chest expanded with a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
He walked over, gripped me by the shoulders, and then hugged me. I supposed it was obvious that my mental state was on the fragile side.
Santiago pulled back and his demeanor suddenly shifted from human being to man on a mission. “You can cry in the car if you need to, but it’s time to go.”
I felt too terrified to cry. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe,” he replied.
“For how long?” I asked.
“As long as it takes.”
“Who are we running from?”
“Very, very bad people,” he replied.
I somehow sensed my life really did depend on Santiago now. I didn’t like the feeling of being so vulnerable and weak.
I reached for my purse.
“You can’t take anything with you,” he said.
“Why not?”
He grabbed the phone in my hand and threw it onto the sopping wet floor. “Your identity has been compromised. There might be devices planted on your things.”
Compromised? Devices? Those were words used by shady spies. “This is not happening.”
He growled impatiently. “Yes. It is. Now deal with it.”
I protested with a hiss. “I need a few things. Underwear, socks—”
“Fine, but…” he looked at the trash can and emptied the moist, crumpled pieces of paper on the floor. He handed me the white plastic shopping bag. “Use this.”
I held the slightly grubby bag in my hand. “I’ve got an overnight bag. It might be dry—”
He shot an angry, impatient glance my way and then marched over to the door. He quickly peered into the hall. “You will use the bag. You have exactly five seconds.”
Shit. I turned the bag inside out, scooped a pile of clothes from the bottom drawer of my dresser, and shoved them inside. They smelled funny but were actually dry. Then I saw my notebook peeking out from beneath the wet pillow. I snatched it up and checked the thing. It was lightly damp on the outside, but fine. I shoved it into the bag between two T-shirts. “Okay. Ready,” I said with a shaky voice.
Santiago grabbed my hand and walked me out of the building as if we were escaping a ticking bomb.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“This is your car?” I asked as we approached the large, black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows, parked curbside.
“Put your seat belt on.” He opened the door and waited for me to slide in before slamming it shut.
He quickly got behind the wheel and sped out of the lot.
“Santiago?”
His dark eyes focused intensely on the road ahead as he weaved through the local traffic. “Not now. I’m concentrating.”
When we approached the red light, his head whipped from side to side. He hit the accelerator and roared right through the intersection.
My nails dug into the black leather seats. “Holy shit. Are you trying to kill me?”
“Funny,” he mumbled to himself. “The girl asks if I’m trying to kill her.”
“Nothing about this is funny.”
“Agreed. Now let me drive.” He looked in the rearview mirror and then made a hard right.
I looked behind us, but didn’t see anyone following.
He took another hard right into a parking garage and pulled into a spot next to a silver Suburban with tinted windows.
“What are we doing?” I asked, panting.
“Changing cars. What does it look like?”
He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and hit the remote. The lights on the Suburban flashed. “Get in.”
He’d been planning for this. An escape with me. I couldn’t begin to articulate how frightening I found that to be. Why would I, of all people, need to have an escape planned for me?
I got in the truck, and he calmly exited the garage, pulling into traffic like we had all the time in the world.
“Are we being followed?” I asked.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s my job to know,” he replied.