He shoved on his helmet, grabbed his weapon, and exited. He slid an ear pod in, then slid his phone into his pocket. A car sped by, slammed on its brakes in front of the waiting vehicle.
BANG! BANG!
The driver collapsed to the ground.
Greystone aimed at the assailants, opened fire.
POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!
The car exploded.
“I got a shit-ton of problems here,” Grey murmured as he jumped into the dead man’s car, shoved the seat back to accommodate his long legs, and took off.
“Where am I going?” he asked.
“The driver knows.”
“The driver’s dead. I blew up the killer’s vehicle.”
Silence.
“Okay,” she replied, her chill voice grounding him. “Drive east five kilometers to a small convenience store. A woman—also wearing a burqa—will take you to the airport, unless you’re being followed.”
He drove, glancing in the mirror every few seconds. What little adrenaline he had left was charging through him at breakneck speed.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“I’d rather talk dirty to you.”
Silence.
“It’s all good,” he murmured.
“You’re good when you’re thirty-thousand feet in the air,” she replied. “I’ve gotta get you out, first.”
“You always do, Bella.”
His nickname for her.
“Turn right at the next street,” she instructed.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into the convenience store lot. A lone car waited nearby. He exited, slid on his helmet, kept his weapon at the ready. He was done—fucking done—being ambushed.
“I’m walking to the driver,” he murmured.
“Describe her to me.”
“Five-five, wearing a black burqa. Dark sedan.”
“She’s going to want you to sit in back,” Caroline said. “Sitin the front.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” she replied.
“The woman opened the back door of her vehicle, but Greystone walked around, opened the passenger door.
“No,” said the stranger. “Back.”
