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“I promise,” she said and watched as his eyes closed and his body went slack.
* * *
Rachel waited until she was over the Missouri state line before she stopped for gas and to use the burner phone. They’d been on the run for more than an hour without incident, but she was cautious as she pulled into a gas station in a town called Joplin. Shane was still passed out in the back seat, but his breathing was nice and steady.
She circled the block just to make sure no one was following and then turned into an Exxon station. She pulled in next to the gas pump and filled up, and then she took the scrap of paper that held Wildcat’s number out of Shane’s wallet. It was impossible not to notice the picture of the pretty brunette behind the thin plastic protector.
Maggie Quincy had been killed in the prime of her life. She’d been a beautiful young woman with intelligent brown eyes and a stubborn chin. Rachel flipped through the other pictures. Most were of Maggie by herself, but there were a couple with both Shane and Maggie. It was obvious from the way they looked at each other that they’d been very much in love. It was ridiculous for her to think he could ever feel that strongly for anyone ever again. He’d had something very special, and part of her believed a love like that could only come along once in a lifetime.
Rachel didn’t know anything about the man she was calling or what to expect, but she called him anyway and hoped Shane knew what he was doing. The phone rang several times and she was about to hang up when a man finally answered.
“This better be important,” the man said.
“Is this Jones Daugherty? Wildcat?” she asked.
“Maybe. Who the hell is this?”
This wasn’t the voice of the man she’d pictured in her mind. She’d pictured Jones Daugherty as a respectable FBI agent—soft spoken, with an obvious need to help others and search for justice. Why else do the kind of work he did? No, this guy sounded like he chewed nails regularly and stomped innocent victims into the ground just for laughs.
“This is Rachel Valentine. Shane told me to call you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s been shot in the shoulder and I think he’s got a concussion. He refuses to go to a hospital, and he told me to tell you we need a safe house that’s close by. Idiot. He thinks he’s Superman.”
Wildcat laughed at that. “Don’t we all. He’s suffered from worse than a puny gunshot to the shoulder, and his head’s as hard as a rock. I’d be surprised if he didn’t crack the pavement. If he tells you he doesn’t need a hospital then he doesn’t.”
“I’m getting a little tired of the testosterone,” she said. “Heaven forbid any of you macho men do the sensible thing.”
“Honey, if you’d lived through some of the things that we have you’d do your best to never do another sensible thing again. Where are you?”
Rachel sighed out a frustrated breath and gave up on trying to talk sense into him. “A gas station in Joplin. I’m on a burner.”
“Give me the number and let me call you back in a few minutes. I don’t know what we have available in that area.”
Rachel gave him the number and he immediately hung up. She was beginning to think Jones Daugherty worked in internal affairs because he lacked people skills.
The phone rang exactly five minutes later and he gave her directions to a place less than half an hour away and the alarm code so they could get in.
“I’m still working on a few other things Ace asked for, but I’ll head in your direction after I leave the office this afternoon. It’ll be late tonight before I’m able to get there, so don’t let him die. He still owes me ninety-seven dollars from a poker game a couple of years ago. Keep the doors locked and don’t go outside for anything. And stay alert.”
Jones hung up without giving her a chance to say thank you. Rachel stared at the phone a few seconds and went back to the car. She grabbed some cash out of Shane’s wallet, locked the doors, and pocketed the key. There was no way she’d make it to the place Wildcat had told her of without a map.
The inside of the service station wasn’t very busy. Only a few customers stood in line and a few others milled around the store. Music played on a radio in the background and people talked softly.
She grabbed a map, a few candy bars, a bag of peanuts, a Coke for her and a bottle of water for Shane. She found a few medical supplies on the opposite aisle and picked up the items she thought Shane would need. It looked like she was going to spend the next couple of days playing Florence Nightingale.
She got in the back of the line and tapped her foot impatiently, every second seeming like a millennium. The teenager in front of her was paying for his gas in pocket change, and if she’d had the extra cash she would have paid for him. When the kid finally left and it was her turn at the counter, she laid down her items and hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything. She had no idea what kind of supplies would be in the safe house—whether the refrigerator would be stocked or if there’d be sheets on the bed. Beds, she corrected. She couldn’t spend another night sharing a bed with Shane. It was torture at its finest.
The radio announcer picked that moment to issue an urgent bulletin.
“This information has just been released in a joint statement by the Tulsa Police Department and the FBI. The body of an unidentified man was discovered this morning with a gunshot to the head. An eyewitness claims two people are responsible for the death, and that they drove away in a tan sedan heading northwest. The witness believes one of the suspects was severely injured in the shootout, and the police corroborated the theory as they found blood other than the victim’s at the scene. The police have issued arrest warrants for Shane Quincy of Louisiana and Rachel Valentine of Illinois, and both are to be considered armed and dangerous. The FBI believes these two individuals are also responsible for the death of Galen Marsh, a high-profile attorney who once unsuccessfully tried to put Dominic Valentine behind bars.”
Rachel kept her head down, not making eye contact with the man behind the counter, but she noticed he paused to look at her as he began to check out the rolls of gauze and first aid items. She’d never stopped to think that she was wearing Shane’s blood on her shirt. Her appearance hadn’t occurred to her once since she’d left Tulsa, and now she’d as good as advertised that she was a wanted criminal to a room full of people.
The radio announcer went on to explain her connection with the Valentine “mob family,” and how she’d been thought to have disappeared with her father eight months before. No one knew for sure if they’d gone underground or if they were dead.
Rachel counted out money and was relieved to see she had just enough. She grabbed the bag off the counter, mumbled a hurried, “Thank you,” and went out the door, feeling like everyone in the store had been staring at her. And when she glanced behind her it was obvious they had been.
