Hope to Die (Alex Cross 22)

“Then you get no say,” he said, and tossed her the keys and the lading documents they’d used to access the container car. “Follow us.”

“Right on your tail,” she promised, and got in the car.

Acadia threw the lading documents on the seat and started the car, seeing Sunday climb up into the passenger seat of the tractor cab. When he closed the door and was no longer visible through the tinted glass, she put the car in gear.

Following the rig east on Old Randolph Road, she stayed close. She fell back slightly on State Route 50 heading south and then caught up on the connector toward I-40.

Acadia waited until Cochran had fully committed to taking the eastbound I-40, a left-hand exit. She threw on her blinker as if to follow, but at the last possible second, she veered right onto Interstate 69, heading south.

Her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Thirty seconds. A minute. Her cell phone began to ring. She glanced over at it, feeling panic rise. Should she say an animal ran across the road, she’d swerved to avoid it, and she’d be right along?

No, Acadia decided, and she hurled the phone out the window. Once you made a move like this on someone like Marcus Sunday, there was no turning back. She’d ditch the car as soon as she could and rent or steal another. And she’d need all the cash she could get her hands on.

Acadia understood that she knew too much about everything. When Marcus decided to come after her—and she had no doubt he eventually would—she wanted to be able to go a long, long way at a moment’s notice.

CHAPTER

57

SUNDAY LISTENED TO ACADIA’S phone ring once and then go to voice mail.

“Say what you have to say,” her voice drawled.

It was the second time he’d heard the message since Acadia had gone south instead of east.

“Maybe she’s going to the airport ahead of us,” Cochran offered. “Expects us to take the shuttle over to meet her.”

Sunday dismissed that possibility out of hand. His agile mind was running full tilt, spinning out motives and scenarios to explain Acadia’s actions. His lover was an extremely smart woman. Sometimes she envisioned the future as well as he did. She was also a survivor and could be lethally ruthless if her survival required it. Acadia rarely acted on impulse. She put thought into her words and deeds. But then she acted and didn’t look back.

She’s running from me, he thought, just as I knew she would eventually. Sunday felt not a lick of anger at her abandoning him. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Too bad; she was a certifiable genius in bed, and it was always nice to talk to someone who shared his active interest in death.

But when paths part, they part. Ordinarily, that’s how Sunday would have handled it, chalked it up to randomness and walked on. But Acadia knew too much about him. He’d opened up to her more than to any other woman. He couldn’t abide her using that information against him somehow, which meant she had to die. And sooner than—

Cochran coughed and broke Sunday’s train of thought. “Any luck?”

Sunday gazed at the driver a long moment, recalculating, before he replied, “I’ll try again.”

He punched in Acadia’s number. When it went to voice mail, he said, “Hey. We’ve been calling. Where are you?”

He paused, nodded, said, “That’s what we kind of thought. We’re going to gas the truck, get something to eat, and we’ll take the shuttle to meet you.”

He listened, said, “I dunno. An hour and a half, two hours?”

Cochran glanced his way, seeing Sunday looking at him quizzically.

“Sounds right,” the driver said.

“Six, six thirty,” Sunday said, and ended the call. “She had to take a pee. And the airport is right there.”

Cochran bought it, said, “I had a girlfriend like that. When that woman had to go, she had to go.”

“That’s Acadia,” Sunday said. “She has to go.”

Cochran took an exit, went north underneath the interstate, and pulled into a Pilot truck stop. He parked at the pumps and started to get out.

“Want a coffee?” Sunday asked.