Vendetta (26 page)

Carter lifts off the seat, digging in his pants pocket.

"Yours too," he says to me.

I swallow har
d.

"You didn't bring yours, did you?" Carter asks.

Is that a hint?

"Um . . ."

"I can't let you through without some form of identification," the officer says. "We're under strict orders."

"No, I have my purse, it's just. . . ." I point to the back. I rea
ch behind the seat, feeling for it. I pull it into my lap, fingers trembling, then open my wallet. I pass our licenses through the window. The officer steps away, shining a light on them. I glance at Carter, and our eyes meet.

My description.

They'll know
I colored my hair. They'll run the license through their computer and know what kind of car I drive. That they're looking for me.

Relax
, Carter mouths.

But my worst fears are confirmed when the officer returns. "Please step out of the car, miss."

"Is some
thing wrong?"

No answer. I reach for the door handle, my entire body shaking on the inside, and step onto the warm pavement.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" I ask again, forcing my voice not to waver.

The National
Guardsmen move about the barricades. The policeman nods one over. "Check the back."

"It's just our stuff. For the weekend," I explain.

The Guardsman pulls open the back door. He unzips my bag and begins rooting around.

"Where were you this evening?" the of
ficer asks.

"Packing. Why?" I try not to sound defensive.

His walkie-talkie buzzes to life. "What's the description?" A voice asks.

He turns away from me, muttering into the receiver. "Medium Height. Probably five-eight. Thin. Curly black hair. Tattoo on h
er left arm."

"You packed a lot for just a weekend," the Guardsman says.

I hear the knives clanking inside, and I can tell he's struggling. It's probably the worst pack job he's ever seen. Loose bottles everywhere, crammed to the brim with clothes.

"It's
the mountains. I've never been. How am I supposed to know what to pack?"

The officer turns to me, eyeing me carefully. The soldier finishes checking Carter's bag and shuts the door.

"Anything?" the police officer asks.

"Nothing out of the ordinary." He wat
ches me as he says this, the hint of a smile on his lips. I blink a few times, unsure what he means by this.

"All right." He passes the licenses to Carter and holds the door open for me.

"Thanks," I mutter, climbing in.

"Enjoy your weekend."

Carter is alr
eady in drive, easing forward. He presses lightly on the gas as we move around the barricades, another Guardsman waving us through.

"You never updated your license photo," he says, passing it back to me.

"What?" I examine the picture. Me. Taken approximat
ely a year ago. It's me . . . but it's not. Not really. Bleach blonde hair, dyed black from the tips to my nose. Eyebrow ring. Heavy makeup.

"And your tattoo. It looks like it's been there forever."

I study the photo a moment longer, noting how little ther
e is to connect me to the person seen at the warehouse tonight. As far as the police are concerned, I'm just some girl who can't make up her mind.

Carter's eyes drift to the rearview mirror and I turn around in my seat, watching. Behind us, a string of he
adlights. I
suck
in a breath and hold it, waiting for them to realize who we are. Who I am. What I've done. At any moment, I just know those flashing blue lights will catch up to us.

And then it dawns on me: "Carter. The back."

"What?"

"The trash bag. You
put it in the very back! It's still back there!"

A wave of realization washes over his face. The trash bag. With what's left of my hair. The dye boxes. Towels stained gray. Evidence that we're nothing like we're pretending to be.

"Shit," he mutters, runni
ng his fingers through his hair, exhaling, emptying all the air from his lungs.

I turn around in my seat, facing forward. The Guardsman checked our bags, but not the rear of the SUV.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

My back
stiffens, heart beating manically, palms sweating. A heavy quiet drifts between Carter and me.

This is it. The hard part is over. We're out.

But deep inside I know: this isn't the end. There might not even be such a thing.

I run my fingers up and down my
arm, touching the vines, caressing the green leaves. I flip my arm over, and there, marked just below the palm of my hand: a lifeline.

A pair of wings extends across my wrist. The kiss of an angel where I thought there was none.

I squeeze the inner corne
r of my eyes, swallowing back the tears jamming my throat, and face the endless stretch of dark, empty road looming ahead. 

About the Author

Katie Klein is a diehard romantic with a
penchant for protagonists who kick butt. Her YA contemporary romance,
Cross My Heart
, is an Amazon Teen Top 100 Bestseller. She currently resides on the East Coast and is hard at work on her next YA novel. Visit her on the web at www.katiekleinbooks.com.