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Chapter Three
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“Stop the car.”
Tracy didn’t blame Shep for his stunned glance. The composure beneath her words was bizarre, not anywhere near the shock sweeping her mind, the dread fisting her stomach, and the terror icing her veins. But if she was going to get Shep’s attention, this was the way.
And right now, she needed his attention.
Because right now, she needed John Franzen back in this car.
Knowing what to do. Knowing where to go. Knowing how to calm the tremors conquering every inch of her form. Replacing her fear with his strength, and her uncertainty with his experience.
Yeah, this was her. Yeah, admitting she needed a man. But in this suspended moment, with the clarity only brought by crisis, she saw the synchronicity of everything that had happened up until now—and the certainty of knowing the captain still had to play a part in it.
Some would call it fate, destiny, or even God’s purpose. At the moment, she wasn’t picky about the labels, especially when all the events led to the same cosmically correct result—starting from the second Dan had called her about this event. The hole she’d actually had in her schedule for it. Sol recognizing they needed extra support from local experts. Sol finding Shay Bommer to assist. Bommer backing out because of his wife’s early labor. Shay calling on help in the form of flying in John Franzen.
Who’d stepped into that dressing room this afternoon, then stomped on the axis of her world.
In the very same moment, restoring every millimeter of its balance.
It sounded crazy. It was crazy. But her life was a whole lot of crazy.
A lot of survival, too.
Reliance on her gut, and never doubting the rightness of what it spoke to her.
Just like it spoke to her now.
Telling her to set her shoulders, steel her jaw, and repeat, “Stop the damn car, Shep!”
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t think now—”
“Received and acknowledged, Agent Cary. Now pull the hell over. We’re waiting for him.”
The agent emitted a sound rougher than the gravel they churned on the side of the road. As soon as the three drivers in their wake copied the move, they instantly laid on their horns. Knowing she’d piss him off more but unable to help herself, Tracy unbuckled then flipped over, shooting a stare backwards.
Fervently, she scanned the other Escalades. Her breath escaped in a relieved whoosh. In all the reverse-gear chaos, they’d taken out the Bellagio’s back gate then skidded onto the street like a Fast and the Furious scene gone wrong. But a thumbs-up from the burly driver of the second car back told her he’d gotten Luke out. A glance to the driver’s seat of the car directly behind them, and the Taye Diggs doppelganger commandeering Gem and Ronnie’s car, confirmed they were all safe too.
Her lungs gave permission for one full breath.
One.
Aside from the distant wail of fire engines, the street was eerily quiet. Tracy peered up and down the block, fighting the need to bolt out of the car. But the stress lent her strange insight. If this were a movie, the audience would be screaming only one thing.
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it!
Screw the audience. And her better sense.
And Shep’s gritted use of the f word as she unlocked the door, cranked the door handle, then pushed out of the Escalade—
Only to be shoved back in.
By a really pissed John Franzen.
“Shit on a shingle!” It was her own version of the f word, as furious as Shep’s growl, as Franzen piled back into the car. Before the captain could shut the door again, she received a full view of the scene he’d just run over from. A billow of smoke curled up from what was the villa, dancing like a wraith against the clear blue sky. The thing was angry and black and huge, likely visible for miles now.
