Page 7 of Till Death Do Us Part

“Elaine,” Vera said, eyes glued to the road. “Do me a favor.”

She wanted me to help? My heart was pounding. I thought I was hallucinating. One second I’d been helping a cat out of the dumpster, and the next there were assassins on my tail and Vera, an incredibly beautiful woman with a scar over one side of her face and a black suit that was now stained in one spot with her own blood, was getting me to a safehouse.

But—I couldn’t—I mean, I couldn’t just ignore it. My voice was shaky as I said, “O-okay. Tell me what to do.”

“Radio. In the glove compartment.”

I rattled through the inside of the compartment, my head spinning. Ammo cartridges, scanner devices, bottles of medication that I doubted were legal—but I pulled out the radio as Vera kept speaking.

“One-one-six-four-two,” she said, and I started typing it on the keypad before she said, “Hold on.”

I clutched the radio and the cat tighter, but I was still thrown off when she threw the wheel to one side, sending the back of the car spinning out as we weaved in front of another car we just passed. I screamed, the other car laid on the horn and careened to the side, and Vera stomped on the gas, sending us down a side road hard enough my head slammed back into the headrest.

“Jesus, Vera,” I choked.

“Shut up and hit the numbers.”

In the mirrors, I saw the two cars that were chasing us squealing to a stop on the corner, reversing awkwardly to try following us, before they disappeared as we took another hard corner. I was on a roller coaster, and I was going to be sick, but I struggled to hold the radio and the cat as I hit the numbers. Vera spoke while the static crackled.

“That’s Petra. Tell her where we are and that we need backup.”

The static stopped, a deep woman’s voice coming through. “The hell you want, Vera? I thought I got you off my back.”

“I—” I choked trying to speak into it. “Vera asked me to call while she’s driving. We need help. We’re on Desmond Avenue heading north—uh—fast—”

“What? Who is this?” Petra sounded rankled. Vera spoke louder.

“That’s Elaine. Whitecliff’s after her. Need a distraction.”

“Whitecliff? They picked up on her already?” Petra let out an irritated sound. “I’m on my way. I’ll knock your lights out once this is done, Vera.”

The radio clicked out just as Vera pulled another hard corner maneuver that threw me into the door, and we tore off down an alley before squealing to a stop in a parking lot. She unbuckled her seatbelt, leaning in front of me to grab something from the glove compartment, and my heart thumped at the way she pushed me so casually aside. She was so strong, graceful, skillful, just—otherworldly.

“Get out.”

“Is this the place?”

“No. Get out.”

I got out of the car with her, my heart in my mouth as she grabbed my wrist and led me to another car in the lot, and she pressed the device from her glove compartment up to the door handle. It clicked twice, and the door unlatched, Vera throwing open the door and nodding me towards the other side.

“What—are we just stealing a car?”

“Your call if you’d rather have your brains painted across the sidewalk.”

My hands were shaking, anger and confusion and panic sick in my stomach, but I went around to the other side as Vera threw open the door for me. The kitten mewled pitifully, but I climbed into the seat and pulled the door shut just before Vera backed out, and I braced myself, but she drove casually, carefully around the corner and onto the next road.

“Another ten minutes,” she said, relaxing into the seat. “Keep calm. Change your hairstyle. We’re just ordinary drivers now.”

“Does that mean you can tell me what’s happening?”

She sighed, dropping back in her seat as we drove carefully through the night in a stolen car. “South Yard,” she said. “You’re now the owner and proprietor of a small property in the industrial district. Inconsequential, except that it’s the last piece of a massive, multi-year legal puzzle that has to be resolved so the Whitecliffs can build a massive logistics operation there and control the arms trade for the whole region. If they don’t have the South Yard, it opens a literal backdoor into their operation where regulators and police can act without fear of retaliation. So they need you off the deed.”

“You’re… you’re joking,” I said shakily.

“Do you hear me laughing?”

“The Whitecliffs are… some kind of organized crime family? They’re the ones who sent those assassins?”