“She doesn’t know his name. Calls him the Voice. He’s after the secret.” Greer flew through the valley and to the canyon. “Paid her two hundred grand.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. Find her. Keep her safe. We’ll figure it out. If she has his number, maybe we can track it.”
Greer nodded and pushed the end call button. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to drive and focus on finding Emery.
Twenty minutes later, he was out of Summit Valley and racing down the 50. Blue and red lights appeared in his rearview. Greer wasn’t a curser. He cursed.
He pulled over quickly, figuring the faster he dealt with the highway patrol, the better. He or Papa should’ve thought to put out a notice about Greer’s car, too.
The guy sauntered up. “Know how fast you were going, son?”
Greer shook his head.
“One-thirty-seven.” The man eyed him. He looked surprisingly congenial for catching Greer going more than double the speed limit. “I try to keep things chill, but that is a ridiculous speed. I hate to take your license, but I definitely could.”
Greer grimaced. He couldn’t afford this delay.
“You weren’t swerving, and you don’t look high or drunk.”
Greer appreciated the patrolman giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“So what’s the excuse for treating my highway like a racetrack?”
“Emergency.”
The guy’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the nature of your emergency, son?”
Greer shook his head. He couldn’t share anything with some stranger, no matter if he was an officer of the law and had been more than reasonable considering how fast Greer was going.
“You won’t tell me?” The man looked surprised.
He shook his head again.
The guy studied him. Greer met his gaze and prayed harder than he ever had. He should beg this guy, but he’d never begged anyone in his life. He was going to beg Emery for forgiveness, but that was a whole different story. A cowboy could grovel to the love of his life and still hold his head up like a man.
“Please,” he said. “Write me a ticket.”
“A ticket?” The guy chortled at that. “You’re cruisingmyhighway at a buck thirty-seven and you think you’ll get off with a ticket? You’re in a sixty-five mile per hour zone, by the way, but I’m sure your fancy car tells you that. You’re more than double the speed limit and you want me to just write you a ticket so you can get to your unnamed ‘emergency’?”
Greer nodded.
The guy looked him over like he was an abnormality. “I have been more than patient with you, son. You should bebeggingme for mercy. Anybody else in the world would do a whole heap of begging right about now.”
“Please,” Greer grunted out.
“You are something else. If you weren’t going seventy-two miles over the speed limit, I might be impressed by your lack of groveling. But as it is, you are going to tell me what this emergency is, and it had better be a doozy, or I’ll suspend your license, arrest you, and impound your car.”
Greer closed his eyes. This was escalating, and all he could think about was he had to get to Emery. He reached down to pull out his phone.
“Whoa, keep your hands where I can see them!”
“Phone,” Greer said, glad his pistol and holster were still underneath the console. “Call Papa.”
The phone connected in the car. “Calling Papa Delta,” it said.