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As a result, he’d gone rogue.
Spending cash.
Giving Bell a new, untraceable number to reach him at.
He’d used a fucking taxi this morning, taken it to the airport, gone through the motions of getting a flight, then gotten a rental car and driven to Bell’s.
Maybe he was being paranoid. It wasn’t the first time Robert had answered his phone and heard a female voice. And it wasn’t the first time, or even the tenth, that Dario had had a woman on the side. It wasn’t like Hawk could sense his love for Bell, and there was no reason for him to suspect anything. Still, every sensor in Dario’s body was blaring alarms at full volume. It was good that they were getting out of town. For at least a night, away from the city and Robert Hawk’s goons … she’d be safe. But at some point during this trip, he would have to tell her the truth—everything he’d bit his tongue on so far. And it wasn’t fair to sleep with her before that, not when those truths would likely end things between them.
She turned in the seat, pulling her feet off the dash, and he let out a sigh, grateful for one less distraction.
“I’m hungry. Mind if we stop somewhere?”
He nodded and changed lanes, an exit approaching.
* * *
THE TAIL
The minivan changed lanes, and Claudia did the same, hiding behind a large semi. She watched until she saw the vehicle on the exit ramp, then followed suit as it turned right. When the van pulled into a gas station, she continued forward, turning into an adjacent fast food restaurant and parking. Watching the vehicle stop beside a pump, she picked up the phone and placed the call.
“Yes?” Robert Hawk spoke quickly, the phone answered on the second ring.
“They’re stopping for gas.”
“Watch, but stay hidden. Call me if anything changes.”
Easy enough. She nodded, ending the call and putting the car into park. Taking a moment, she stretched out her legs, the muscles sore from tailing Bell’s run, and glanced in the rearview mirror, the fast food sign bright and appealing. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled.
She hadn’t had fast food in years. Her time in the warehouse had conditioned her stomach to the basic meals that servitude provided—cold subs delivered rarely enough to keep her hunger guessing. The subs were always leftovers from Hawk catering functions, some half-eaten, all delicious to their starved stomachs. Now, she eyed the Tex-Mex sign and remembered the last taco she’d had, over two years ago. It had been grabbed after work and choked down while driving home, a frosty soda gripped in one hand while she steered with her knees. She’d been so weak, back then. So focused on unimportant things like social media updates and fashion trends, TV shows and class schedules. She’d drowned her weekends in alcohol and distracted her boredom with sex. She’d had no idea of life until it had all been taken away from her.
And that was what Robert tried to give them.
The meaning of life.
The value of living.
The importance of submission and boundaries and respect.
Too bad none of the others had understood that, or listened to the whispered lessons she tried to pass on. They had all looked at her as if she was crazy, as if she was the one chained to a wall and they had all the answers.
The minivan’s door opened, and Bell Hartley’s head popped up. The infamous Dario Capece glanced over his shoulder at her, the gas pump in hand. She shut the door and came around the car, still speaking to Dario as she walked away … and toward the taco joint, alone. Claudia reached into the passenger seat, found her phone and got three or four good pictures of Bell on her way toward the restaurant.
Claudia’s stomach growled again, and she turned in her seat to watch Bell pull open the taco chain’s door and disappear inside.
She tossed the phone down and turned off the car. Opening the center console, she paused, glancing from the switchblade to the handgun. Could she do this? She thought of Robert’s promise, a dinner with him and Gwen, just the three of them.
She reached into the console and grabbed them, slipping the gun into the back of her jeans and the switchblade in her pocket. She was efficient in both weapons, thanks to hours spent with Robert. She’d learned the weak areas of the human body, knew how to stab, twist and slice the life out of someone. She’d practiced with the handgun at five yards, then fifteen, then twenty-five. She could hit the center ring of a bull’s eyes seven times out of ten at all three distances. Bell Hartley wouldn’t have a chance.
She stepped out of the car and toward the restaurant, one hand slipping into her pocket and palming the knife.
