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“It’s up here. Already fetched it while you were catching your breath.”
God, I don’t remember that either.
It’s amazing how a nasty shock can just totally fry the system.
Seeing my purse and the bag on the ground a few steps away, as well as his pickup, I let out a long, harsh hiss of relief.
“I didn’t see them. They were just…there all of a sudden. Thanks, Ridge. The pharmacist, Milly, told me I could walk to the grocery store, that the path back here was shoveled, and—” I bite my lips together to stop my rambling. “I’m sorry, Ridge. I never in a million years expected them to—”
“I didn’t, either,” he rumbles, stopping to pick up my purse and the bag of cold meds. “But I really fucking should have. No excuses.”
He carries my stuff to the passenger side of his truck and helps me climb in, then passes it over before closing the door.
My heart sinks.
He can’t really think it’s his fault?
In any sane world, Jackknife and his men should’ve been long gone. Yet he’d stuck around. Watching, waiting, something I wanted to believe wasn’t a real worry since Ridge humiliated him and took the trackers off our truck.
When Ridge climbs in his side, he’s on his phone.
“Yeah. Yep. Please do. Already told Wallace. That’s right, Ridge…Dane…Barnet. Do what you have to. No, I don’t give a fuck about making it official…I read you loud and clear, Drake. Thanks.”
I can’t hear anything besides his clipped, but calm and clear answers.
My stomach churns, knowing he’s called the police.
“Thanks again, man. I owe you.” He clicks off his phone and sets it on the console. Flashing me a grin that doesn’t quite match the storm in his eyes, he asks, “Still doing okay? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Dad’s the one who should see somebody.” I tighten my hold on the bag from the drugstore. “And I need to get this to Dad. Pronto.”
“On it.” He puts the truck in drive and slowly guides us to the end of the alley where the black SUV had been.
There, he stops, checks for traffic, and then pulls out onto the street.
“So you called the police?” I can’t hold my silence any longer, rubbing my head, where I find a new bruise waiting to bloom.
“I called in their plate number ASAP.” He huffs out a false laugh. “The sheriff and my buddy, Drake, both have it out to the whole police force several towns over. That’s the silver lining about dicking around in Hollywood as long as I did. Years of memorizing scripts helps a man remember everything.”
Finally, some good news.
As soon as the ambush ended, I expected aches and pains and a whole lot of nightmares.
One thing I never expected?
To smile again this soon.
8
No Kept Secrets (Ridge)
I hit the end call button on my phone and stare at the screen, hardly surprised by the news.
Stolen plates.
Of course they were. Right off a Ford registered to a dead gal in Michigan.
Mother-fuckers.
No reports of a black SUV by any patrol officers, either. Considering Dallas has a minuscule roster of cops, it’s a miracle old Rodney Wallace can even spare my neighbor, Drake Larkin, to go looking for Dickless Pete and his minions.
Thankfully, Drake’s a veteran soldier when it comes to trouble in this town. He took down an evil company muscling into town and a serial killer, no less.
If there’s anyone in Dallas truly qualified to hunt down mobsters, it’s him. And if Drake corners that sneering boar of a man with the ugly ink etched on his face, what I did that night at the Bobcat will look like a nice sunny day at the zoo.
Shit.
Yanking open a desk drawer, I scrounge around for the notepad where I’d jotted down the intel that Faulkner reported last night.
There wasn’t much—what else is new?
Mundane crap about Sellers’ Pumpkins, a nine-year-old business with a still-active listing in the state of Wisconsin.
One owner: Nelson Sellers.
Former occupation: retired railroad worker. Yard Supervisor.
A daughter: Grace Imogene Sellers.
Wife’s cause of death: cancer.
A perfectly boring record without a hint of a troubled man with hardened thugs on his tail.
Faulk said he hadn’t heard back from a few sources yet, and he’d email a full report once his old FBI hounds checked in.
Fine.
I hope to Hades they turn up something.
My computer is on, email open. Nothing shows up in my inbox, other than an email asking me to rate my latest purchase—a history book on the Boer War I’d ordered for Tobin’s birthday last month.
I’ll never know how he has the time or energy to devour as many books as he does. The man lives, breathes, eats, sleeps, and shits books of all genres. I think he could go toe-to-toe with most PhDs.
Glancing at my phone again, I drop it on the desk with a sigh.
