Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) (17 page)

The thought barely crossed his mind before he heard the roar of an engine. Powerful yet muted, it seemed to be heading toward him.

He risked crawling forward for another look, caught the reflection of floodlights on chrome. Focusing on it from his low vantage point, he made out the speeding shape of a black sedan. It streaked behind a line of parked cars and swerved into the pedestrian lane outside the store front. A woman emerging from the automatic doors screamed and dodged back inside the building.

On the car came, while the shooter hung out the rear window, weapon in hand. In seconds, it would be even with the lane where the truck sheltering him was parked. He’d have nowhere to hide once it made the turn.

He wasn’t taking it lying down. Using his elbows, he scuttled backward, getting ready to spring up and run.

It was then he heard the RV’s diesel engine fire up. From where he lay, he could see the wheels start to turn. It accelerated suddenly, reversing out of its slot before slamming to a stop. Rubber squealed as it surged forward.

“What the hell, Mandy?” he whispered while blank terror gripped him. “What are you doing?”

She was driving; he could just make out her pale, slim shape behind the wheel. From the thundering acceleration of the engine, the way it gathered speed with every turn of the wheels, she must have her foot rammed all the way to the floorboard.

The roar of the two engines seemed to merge in his head, growing louder every second. He could feel the vibration of them through the pavement under him, sense it in his chest. The small motor home thundered past him, racing on a collision course with the black sedan that was making the turn down the parking lane, heading toward him. With sickening clearness, he saw an arm with a handgun extend from the sedan, aiming at its driver.

His eyes burned as he followed the gray streak that was the RV.  The dull thuds of silenced shots rang out like distant fireworks.

“God, Mandy,” he breathed, a formless prayer.

He knew what was going to happen even as the bulk of the RV blocked his view. Nothing he could do would stop it. In his mind, he could hear Mandy’s voice telling him a car could become a weapon, explaining how she’d used hers that way before, when she was abducted.

She was doing it again. She was going to ram the black sedan.

The heavy RV hit with a thunderous crash. Lance ducked, cursing, as brakes screamed, engines whined, and flying pieces of chrome and glass blew past him. The lighter vehicle skidded sidewise with smoke billowing from its tires.

Abruptly, it went airborne. Hurtling into a long van parked in a handicapped slot, it folded like black origami. The noise faded into silence.

It didn’t last. Steam began to spew and glass fell in a tinkling shower. Car alarms blasted, becoming an endless wail. Above it all, Lance heard the RV’s diesel grind as it was thrown into reverse.

Mandy was okay. She was still at the wheel. He could breathe again.

She backed away from the carnage, and kept coming until the RV was even with the truck where he lay. Directly opposite, she screeched to a halt.

He rolled into the open, pushed to his feet. He swayed as darkness crowded the edges of his vision, but rallied as he saw Mandy scramble across from the driver’s seat and throw open the passenger door.

He staggered to it, caught the handle, and tried to pull himself inside. She grabbed one arm and his shirt collar, falling back as she dragged him up into the seat.

“Go!” He meant that to be an order, but it sounded more like a plea.

She gave him an anxious look that turned a little wild as her gaze rested on his forehead. “You’re hurt!”

“Never mind. Get us out of here.”

She glanced at the wreckage. The sedan’s passenger door was open, and a man was crawling out it. The woman from the store was running toward it with a cell phone pressed to her ear.

Mandy’s face turned grim. She swung back and stretched past him to slam his door. Lunging back into the driver’s seat, she jerked the automatic transmission into reverse again and flew backward until the RV was in the clear. Dragging it into drive then, she took off.

They left the parking lot on two wheels, running a caution light as they swung through the intersection and onto the highway. The RV picked up speed, dodging around slow early morning traffic, cutting it close on red lights. Soon they were out of the small town. Mandy slowed somewhat then, but the vehicle still pitched and rocked as she sent it careering down the road.

Lance didn’t care. Blinding pain held him in his seat. His head felt as if it had been split open. The back of his shirt was wet with blood, and he could still feel its heat as it flowed out of his hair. He spared a thought for what it was doing to the upholstery of Trey’s baby, and what he’d say when he saw all the other damage, but it had little force. He went back to the parking lot in his mind, to the sound of a shot and the stunning sight of that black sedan. It was the same one last seen at the campground, he’d swear to it.

How had the goons tracked them down? He’d thought sure they’d used the signal from his old smart phone, but that couldn’t be right. They should still be looking for it in its shallow grave at the base of a pine tree, or at least standing around at a loss, wondering where they’d gone after burying it.  

Something else, it had to be something else.

Not Trey, never Trey.

Not Sheriff Tate. Impossible.

What, then? What?

Or maybe who?

It wasn’t him. That left only one person.

Mandy. It had to be Mandy who was guiding the pursuit.

That didn’t make sense.

Did it?

Mandy spared Lance a searching look, while keeping one eye on the road ahead. Dismay shifted through her. He was pale, too pale, beneath the sun-bronze of his skin. He seemed out of it, his eyes glazed and lips moving without sound. Blood welled from his wound, sheeting down the side of his face with no sign of stopping. She had to get help for him, but how?

She had been so scared when she heard the thudding impact of the first shot. She’d been watching Lance out the window at that moment, wondering who he was calling. Seeing him go down had been horrifying, though he was able to take cover. Then she saw the black sedan that had been haunting her for so long, knew the men inside had shot Lance.

She hadn’t thought but only acted from raw, unfiltered rage. She’d wanted to smash that black car to pieces, but first she had to help Lance. The keys dangling in the ignition seemed to point the way. The RV would block the gunman’s view long enough for him to jump on board. All she had to do, she thought, was get close to where he was pinned down.

That was until she saw the men in the sedan intended to hunt him down. The RV was far larger than the car she’d wrecked some weeks back. Her seatbelt was fastened from sheer habit. Before she knew it, she was ramming the sedan, showing the goons inside what it felt like to be on the receiving end for a change.

She expected exhilaration afterward, or at least vindication. Instead, she felt sick.

Lance was hurt because of her. They had shot him.

Why—unless it was because they’d figured out it was necessary to go through him to get to her now?

Her fault. All her fault.

She had to get help for him. If he should die—but, no, she couldn’t think about that. Medical attention was what he needed. Maybe she should turn around and find a hospital with an emergency room in the town back there behind them?

Yes, but any doctor who saw Lance would recognize a bullet wound. He’d be required by law to report it. The police would get involved. The two of them might be detained, might even be charged with leaving the scene of an accident if anybody wanted to call it that.

Yes, but what other choice was there? If it meant the difference between life and death for Lance, it was worth it.

Unless there was another way?

Mandy bit her bottom lip as she tried to decide. Her foot on the gas pedal lightened so the RV slowed. Ahead of her was a country church with a wide drive and deserted parking lot. She touched the brake, made the turn. Pulling around behind the building, she stopped and put the RV in park.

“Lance?” She reached across the gap between the seats and grasped his shoulder, giving him a small shake.

He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his lashes resting on the skin beneath them with its faint rays of sun-squint lines.

Her heart caught in her throat.

Oh, but his chest still rose and fell with his breathing, and she could feel the throb of his carotid artery under her questing fingers.

All right, then.

Skimming between the two front seats, she whipped into the bathroom where she pulled a clean towel and a couple of washcloths from the lower cabinet. With them in hand, she returned to kneel beside Lance. He was warm to the touch, but still might go into shock. As quickly as possible, she folded the washcloths into a thick pad and pressed it to the bullet gouge. She wrapped the towel tightly around his head, then, to form a turban, tucking the end in place to hold it. She couldn’t tell if the pressure was enough to slow the bleeding, but it was the best she could do.

Now for the important part.

She felt the pocket of his shirt, but it was empty. Greatly daring, she leaned to brace one hand on the passenger armrest while she reached behind Lance, pressing close as she slid her fingers into the back pocket of his jeans.

She came up with his billfold, but it was useless to her. She dropped it on the floor and reached behind him again.

“Mandy,” he murmured against her temple. His breath was warm as it whispered over her skin. It was a pleasure to feel it, since it seemed he might not be as badly hurt as she’d thought.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said in soothing tones. “I need to reach—”

His fingers trailed along her jaw and down her neck. Carefully, almost reverently, he cupped her breast.

“Hey!” she said in protest.

“Beautiful, so beautiful.” He brushed her nipple with his thumb so it tightened into a hard bud. “But I can’t trust you, not now, not ever.”

She caught his hand and lowered it to his side. With it out of the way, she could stretch far enough to reach his other pocket. She grasped the cell phone she felt there and pulled it out, then sat back on her heels.

He was watching her, his eyes not quite focused, but in their whiskey brown depths was an expression of such loss and sadness it tore at her heart.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice a husky thread of sound in her throat. “But I don’t trust you, either.”

Lance came awake slowly, and with something less than his normal instant clarity. He had the vague feeling that he’d dreamed something intriguing, but couldn’t quite grasp it. He was in the RV, in the rear bed with the slide-out extended so the mattress lay full length. It was no longer moving, a blessing as he seemed to remember feeling nauseated. He’d had a headache, though that had retreated to a dull throb that was bearable for the moment.

Lifting a hand, he felt gingerly around an area of pain a half inch or so above his temple. A sizeable square of bandaging was taped there, with short, stubby hair on either side.

Abruptly, he had flashes of mental images: shots, the black sedan, Mandy behind the wheel of the RV. Yes, and hovering over him with fear in her face.

His eyes opened wide. Where was she? Lifting to one elbow, he stifled a groan as he stared down the length of the vehicle.

A light shone up front, pushing back the darkness outside. Mandy sat beneath it with a book in her hands.

He sighed and settled back onto his pillow while keeping her in sight.

Her hair shimmered, a soft, golden brown in the weak glow provided by the rig’s lighting. It flowed around her face and over her shoulders, reaching past the curves of her breasts. A peaceful expression lay on her features as she read. In his somewhat bemused state of mind, she looked almost angelic.

Somewhere near his heart, an unfamiliar ache gathered, spreading throughout his chest. He watched Mandy turn a page, and then another, unable to look away.

She stirred, as if made uneasy by his close regard. Standing, she glanced in his direction, though it was apparently too dark where he lay for her to see that he no longer slept. She stretched, a movement that did interesting things to her T-shirt, and then moved the few steps that took her to the kitchen area. She lifted the lid of a pot that simmered on the range, picked up a spoon and stirred the contents. The smell of vegetable beef soup drifted to him, and his stomach growled.