Page 108 of Rage

I’ve no cover. Nowhere to run. I launch myself into a sprint, head for the building. Nearly to the sidewalk, I swing left, toward the back. I’m keenly aware of the vehicle bearing down. The headlights playing over me. I glance right, see the grille. Ten feet away. Closing fast. I know he’s going to get me …

I pivot, do a quick switchback, and change direction. The vehicle jigs left. The grille tracking me. Engine screaming. The left fender slams against my right hip. The impact launches me into the air, pain zinging hip to ankle. I tumble, sound and light spinning. The ground crashes into me. I’m facedown. Hurting. Dazed, I get to my hands and knees, try to get my feet under me. All I can think is I’m not dead as I scramble to my feet.

“Don’t fucking move!”

I glance left, see Carter Brooks striding toward me, right arm extended, a pistol leveled at me. His face is contorted with rage. Out of control, I think, and I brace for a bullet.

I put my hands up. “Don’t,” I say, but my voice is shaking and weak. “Don’t do it.”

“You fucking bitch.”

A flash of headlights to my right. I see the blur of a vehicle. The high-pitched hum of an engine. I stumble back, try to get out of the way. Brooks doesn’t see it coming. The impact propels him with such force that he cartwheels twice, crashes to the ground, and skids six feet. His pistol skitters past me.

Tires bark against the asphalt as the vehicle jerks to a halt. The driver’s door flies open.

“Kate!”

Tomasetti.

Choking back a sob of relief, I stagger toward him, reaching. His arms close around me. “I got you,” he says. His hands skim down my arms, barely touching, as if he’s afraid if he touches too hard, I might disintegrate.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“I have no idea.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of a second vehicle pulling up next to the Tahoe. Skid, I realize, and for the first time in hours, I feel safe.

A few feet away from me, Brooks moves. He sits up, looking around as if he has no idea where he is or how he got there. Skid goes to him, kneels, and snaps handcuffs into place.

“Can you walk?”

I turn my attention back to Tomasetti, see the depth of concern in his eyes. “I think so,” I tell him.

“How about if we get you checked out anyway?” he says.

“Probably a good idea.”

“Ambulance is on the way.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

His eyes flick in the direction of The Cheetah Lounge. “Everyone else okay?”

“The three women,” I say. “They’re in the dressing room.”

“We’ll take care of them.” Putting his arm around me, he helps me to the passenger side of the Tahoe, but I stop him.

“Wingate?” I ask.

“In custody.”

I nod, not sure why the news feels so hollow. “They murdered Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler,” I tell him. “Wilma Borntrager, too.”

“Trafficking?”

I think of the senselessness of all of it and feel the heat of tears in my eyes. “Yutzy wasn’t exactly innocent,” I say. “He was a player.” I think about that a moment. “But he fell in love with Wilma Borntrager. Had a change of heart. Tried to get her out. Got himself out, and they killed him for it.”

Tomasetti grimaces as he helps me onto the seat. “The bouncer’s involved?”