“I’ll drive.” Zeke jangled his keys and pushed ahead of her.
“No.” She checked another pocket and felt the familiar shape of her key fob. “Last time, you nearly got us killed. My vehicle has lights and sirens.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
She hit the unlock button and slipped into the driver’s seat. “Why is it that guys never accept fault?”
He opened the passenger door. “That’s a pretty broad statement.”
She sent him a reproachful look. “Yet, oh-so-true.” A rush of movement caught her attention. “Behind you!”
But her warning came too late. The assailant struck Zeke, and his wide eyes met hers briefly. In them, she saw fear. Fear for her before they rolled back, and he was thrust into the passenger seat.
Alan Rogers stood outside the open door, wearing a T-shirt and swim trunks and pointing a gun at Zeke’s slumped figure. “A loss for a loss, Olivia.”
Liv’s deathgrip on the steering wheel kept her grounded in the present, when all her mind wanted to do was spin out of control. Peering into the rearview mirror, she met Alan Rogers’s cold stare before glancing at Zeke’s unconscious body, now wedged between the passenger door and seat, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Still breathing.
Breathing meant he was alive. Alive meant there was a chance for her to get him out of this.
But the blood. There was so much of it sliding from an unseen wound at the back of his head. It curled around his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt.
Alan had a thing for sneak attacks and traumatic head wounds.
She kept reminding herself that head wounds bled like drama queens acted. Over the top.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Olivia. We wouldn’t want to get into an accident. Your lover isn’t buckled in. One hard brake, and he could go flying through the windshield. You wouldn’t want to break Brodie’s heart a second time, would you?”
Beneath her fear for Zeke’s safety roiled a fury that made her hands shake. “Why are you doing this?”
She peered at the repulsive reflection in her rearview mirror again. Alan sat in the center of the backseat, buckled in as if he were on a road trip and enjoying the sights. The handgun trained on the back of Zeke’s head shattering the illusion.
“A loss for a—”
“Yeah, yeah, I fucking get it. A loss for a loss.”
Anger wiped the self-satisfied look off his face. He kicked the back of her seat. “Don’t forget who’s holding the gun.”
“Tell me. Who did your mom leave? You or your dad?”
“She left because you stuffed a bunch of modern feminist bullshit into her head.”
“Shit like, ‘You shouldn’t fear living in your own home?’ or ‘Your adult son and husband can wash their own underwear’?”
“She was content, knew her place, until you came along, flashing your business card, promising her things.”
So that was how he found out about her and tracked her down. He must have suspected something was going on, searched his mother’s purse, and found Liv’s business card.
Stupid mistake, Westcott. She made a mental note to get a burner phone and generic cards just for her volunteer work.
Alan’s scowl turned into a terrible smile. “Claudia doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done with that. . . that woman.” He said the word as if he wanted to use a different epithet, but years of conditioning wouldn’t allow such blasphemy. “I have a replacement lined up. One much easier on the eyes. One I’ll enjoy breaking in.”
Callie.
Bile congealed in the back of her throat, neither coming up nor going down. Stuck in the center of her chest, burning, eating away at the walls of her esophagus.
If she still had possession of her service weapon, she would have drawn it and blown the bastard’s head off. But her weapon now rested in the hand of her enemy.