Nine Lives (25 page)

“You better be right,” Flannery said.

“Take down my cell phone number. Let me know if there's a problem.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Flannery said, wrote down the number, then disconnected.

Wilson gritted his teeth and pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. He was doing ninety when he hit the city limits of San Antonio. The lights on the streets were little more than a blur, as were the head and tail lights of the cars he continued to pass.

Where was a cop when you needed one?

Before he knew it, the lights of the city were fading in the distance behind him. He picked up the phone and dialed Cat's number.

 

The ringing phone was startling. Cat had been so focused on making up for lost time that she jumped before she realized what she was hearing, then reached for it quickly, unwilling to pull over to talk.

“Hello?”

“It's me,” Wilson said. “I just talked to Flannery. He's going to notify the highway patrol. If they try to stop you, let them. They're going to help.”

Frustration shattered her concentration.

“Damn it, Wilson. I don't have time to stop and chit chat with them. Presley and his hired gun are less than an hour from the border and even closer to the Laredo airport. For all I know, he's got a plane waiting.”

“Just do what I say…please,” Wilson said. “And, Cat…don't disconnect this call, okay? If something starts to go down or they change direction, you can tell me where you are and what's happening, so I don't lose you.”

Cat cursed beneath her breath before finally agreeing.

“All right, but I can't talk to you and drive. I'm going too fast.”

“All I'm asking is that you don't hang up.”

“I won't,” Cat said. “I'm laying it down now.”

Cat's voice was gone, but he could still hear the sound of her car engine and the occasional honk of a car horn. It wasn't the best situation, but it made him feel better, knowing they had a connection now, no matter how tenuous.

 

Mark Presley was sitting in the back seat of Tutuola's big Lincoln, congratulating himself for coordinating the rest of his escape with such ease. He had to admit that Tutuola was not only huge but intimidating. The tattoos had been distracting in their own right until Tutuola had smiled. The sight of those razor-sharp teeth was daunting. Was this really a man, or an animal? Either way, as long as he was on Presley's side, it didn't matter.

Tutuola had read Mark Presley in one glance. He didn't know what the man had done, but it was obvious he believed he had nothing to lose. The wild, almost vacant, look in his eyes had given Solomon a slight pause for concern, especially after Presley had refused to sit in the front seat with him.

Despite the fact that Solomon was armed, he couldn't help but think how easy it would be for the man behind him to go into some kind of fit and put a bullet through the back of his head. He had to be careful and not set the fool off until he'd gotten his money. After that, he didn't care what happened to him. He could shoot himself, for all he cared.

On the heels of that thought, Presley leaned forward and tapped Tutuola on the back of the shoulder. Solomon's heart skipped a beat. Was that a gun?

“How long to Laredo?” Presley asked.

Tutuola let out a slow, easy breath. “About a half hour,” he said.

“All right,” Mark said, and leaned back in the seat.

Tutuola eyed him nervously, then turned his attention back to the road. He couldn't help but notice that the man kept turning around and looking out the back window. Who was after him and—not that it mattered—but what the hell had he done?

 

It was daybreak.

The sky was just visible, and from the looks of it, it was going to be another dismal day. Although it wasn't nearly as cold here in Laredo as it had been in Dallas, it was still winter. The digital clock on one of the banks was registering seven o'clock in the morning and thirty-six degrees. It would, most likely be in the fifties before the day was over, but right now, Mark was cold. He stared at the back of Solomon Tutuola's head, as he'd done ever since they'd left San Antonio. As he thought back, he didn't know what had possessed him to hire someone like this. It would have been easier to hire some cab driver out of San Antonio to drive him to Laredo. He could have walked across the border into Nuevo Laredo and hired another car to take him wherever he wanted. Now he was stuck with a man he was afraid to turn his back on. He blamed it all on the panic. There had been a time in his life when he wouldn't have made mistakes like this. He used to be able to read people like a map. But that was before he'd made such a monumental mistake with Marsha Benton. He didn't know how he could have been so wrong, but he'd been wrong with a capital W and was paying for it now.

While Presley was ruminating about the error of his ways, his driver was contemplating a fifty-thousand dollar paycheck. They'd been in Laredo for all of fifteen minutes. The fuel gauge was rocking on empty—as empty as Tutuola's belly. He glanced up in the rearview mirror and caught Presley looking at him. It was instinct that made him scowl, but it was the wild-eyed look in Presley's eyes that cautioned him to keep his mouth shut.

“What's that dinging sound?” Presley asked.

“Need to fill up with gas,” Tutuola said.

“Well…do it, for God's sake. I don't have time to run out of gas in the middle of the street.”

Solomon's lips curled in what was supposed to pass for a grin, but he was pissed. Usually, he was the one giving orders.

He aimed for the nearest gas station and pulled up to the pumps.

Presley threw a handful of twenties over the seat.

“Pay in cash.”

Solomon pocketed the money and got out, went inside to pay then quickly returned. He started pumping and rolled his head from one side to the other, grunting softly as his neck popped both times. The morning air was chilly, but it felt good to stretch his legs.

Within minutes, the pump kicked off. He replaced the nozzle and then the gas cap, eyed the man in the back seat through the window, making sure he wasn't going to do something stupid, like try to steal his car, and then headed for the station to get some food.

He paid for two cups of coffee and a half-dozen sweet rolls from the deli inside. He was walking back to the car when he saw a tall, dark-haired woman get out of an SUV and start toward his car.

Her gaze was fixed on the man in the back seat, but when he saw the gun in her hand, he tossed the coffee and rolls and began to run.

 

Cat saw the killer putting fuel in his car. The sight rattled her so much that she drove right past before she thought to hit the brakes. Now she was forced to backtrack again as she took the next turn and drove back the way she'd just come. At that point, it occurred to her to tell Wilson.

“Wilson!”

He was so startled to hear Cat's voice that he jumped.

“What?”

“I'm in Laredo, and so are they. They've stopped at a station called Come and Get It. The big man's getting gas. Presley is in the back seat. I'm going after him now.”

Wilson stifled a groan. Damn it all to hell, he was still at least fifteen minutes behind her.

“I don't suppose asking you to wait is going to work,” he said.

“No.”

“Then for the love of God, be careful. I'm calling the Laredo police for backup.”

“Tell them to hurry,” she said. “I've arrived at the station, and I'm going to get out now.”

She laid down the phone without giving him time to argue any more and pulled up to the pumps. She parked behind the car she'd been following and slammed the gearshift into park. She got out with the gun in one hand and her handcuffs tucked loosely in the waistband of her pants. Even though it was cold, she left her coat in the SUV, unwilling to be hampered by the weight. When she saw the back of Mark Presley's head, she felt a huge sense of relief. She'd lost him once, but she wouldn't let it happen again.

“Come to Mama, you son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered, and then grabbed the handle of the back door and yanked it open.

To say Presley was shocked would have been putting it mildly, but it was the gun in his face that left him speechless.

“Get out,” Cat said, as she pushed the gun barrel into his left ear. “Don't make a scene, or it will be my pleasure to put a bullet right through that evil brain of yours.”

“Jesus, God,” Presley muttered, while looking wildly toward the station for Tutuola.

“Now!” Cat said, and shoved the barrel hard enough into his ear that she made it pop.

“No! Wait!” Presley begged. “I'm getting out. I'm getting out. Just don't pull the trigger.”

Cat glanced around once, and as she did, saw the driver coming out of the station at the same time he saw her. She saw him toss his purchases and start running. In a panic, she grabbed Presley by the wrist and popped one handcuff around it, then pulled.

“Get out! Get out, or I swear to God I'll break it off!” she screamed.

Presley was moving as fast as he could, and still her strength was greater. She pulled so hard he came stumbling out and went down. She was on his back and grabbing his other wrist when she went flying through the air.

She hit feet first, then stumbled backward and sat down hard as her gun went sliding across the concrete. Ignoring the pain, she jumped to her feet, scrambling for the gun as she saw the tattooed man shove Presley back into the car and take off.

“No!” she screamed, and fired two shots at the car as it sped away.

The sound of gunfire sent everyone around into hiding as she ran for her car. Seconds later, she was right behind them, speeding through the streets.

“They made me!” she yelled, knowing that Wilson was undoubtedly still listening. “I'm right behind them. I think we're heading to the border.”

The big Lincoln moved faster than she would have imagined, and since Laredo was unfamiliar to her, and despite the bug, she quickly lost them in a maze of side streets. She had to find out where the border crossing was and intercept them, so she rolled down a window as she came to a stop sign. There was a homeless man standing on the corner with a rolled up newspaper under his arm. She leaned out, waved a twenty at him and yelled, “Where's the border crossing?”

He grabbed the twenty and pointed.

She sped away with her heart in her throat as the sound of police sirens rose in the distance behind her.

 

“You fucking get me across the border or you don't get a dime!” Presley yelled.

Tutuola didn't answer. He was too busy taking the back streets to make sure the cops didn't follow. It was going to be hard enough to get this fool and his gun past the guards.

“When we get there, you fucking keep your mouth closed or I'll throw you out on your ass and leave you on the American side for that bitch to pick up,” Tutuola said.

It was the calm, unemotional tone of his voice that shut Presley down.

“Who is she?” Tutuola asked.

“Hell if I know,” Presley said. “She just keeps dogging my steps. She's into my business, and I don't know why.”

Tutuola glanced up into the rearview mirror, meeting Presley's gaze.

“I think you lie,” he said softly, then took the next right and drove south.

 

They were at the crossing talking to the guards when Cat finally drove up. She counted twelve cars in front of her and jumped out on the run. Just as she passed the first car, Presley's car moved forward.

Her heart sank. They were across the border.

She ran back to her car and got in. Now she needed to hide the gun and taser and calm herself down, or she would never be allowed to follow.

She lifted the lid of the console between the bucket seats, yanked out the CDs, pushed on the bottom until it gave and popped up, then dropped both weapons into a little compartment she'd had made after she bought the car.

Her hands were shaking when she put the CDs back into place, then shut the lid.

The cars moved up.

She moved with them.

She was almost at the gate when she remembered the program was still running on the laptop. She shut it down as fast as she could with one hand and then closed it. It wasn't against the law to take a laptop into Mexico, but she didn't want to have to try to explain why she was using it as a tracking device.

By the time she got to the guards, she was chewing gum like she'd been working on it all night, had a Willie Nelson CD blasting in the stereo, her hair was hanging wild and loose around her face and neck, and she'd unbuttoned the three top buttons on her shirt, leaving very little of her shapely bust to the imagination.

“Good morning,
señorita,
” the first guard said.