Page 26 of Reckless Woman
Did I get careless?
I’m so used to slipping in and out of the US undetected, I’d half-assumed they’d given me diplomatic immunity for being such a cocky bastard. On reflection, I doubt they give that out to the second Most Wanted man in America without an under-the-table bribe the size of Santiago’s island.
Was I sold out?
There’s a growing consternation in my mind, one with brown leather cowboy heels, a blood-soaked machete, and lying eyes.
That fucking bitch.
Slamming my foot to the floor, the SUV surges forward like a line-back going for a super catch. I barely shift in my seat as I weave in and out of the deadbeat middle laners, nudging one-thirty. I’m running on a hunch, and that hunch is leading me all the way back to Miami. Anna needs me there, and nothing, not even an army of the State’s Own, is going to stop that from happening.
I’ve already crossed the Hudson, but there are still six miles of heart-in-the-mouth to go. I’m deep in New Jersey which is Mexican Cartel territory. One wrong move, and I’ll have two sets of guns pointing at my head.
Without missing a beat, I reach for my cell. Eli, our pilot, answers on the first ring.
“I’ve got company,” I tell him, taking the next exit and running a set of red lights—losing three cop cars in the process.
He blows out a cigarette breath. “How many?”
“Looks like a couple of departments of NY’s finest just got a day outing.”
There’s a pause as he assesses my likelihood of staying out of jail tonight.
“Think you can get here in one piece?” he asks, picking the right option.
“Damn straight I can.”
“We’re fueled and waiting for you, Grayson.”
“Be ready. I’m coming.”
My next call is to Roman.
“I’m thinking of taking up Latin,” I drawl, needing a drink so bad I can taste the burn at the back of my throat. “Vindicta was a warning we should have seen coming.”
He reads between my cool lines right away.
“What’s happened?”
“I have a parade of blue behind me a mile long.”
He curses loudly. “Where are you?”
“Blowing through New Jersey like a fucking hurricane. We’ve got a leak, and my money’s on Colombia.”
“Shake them off, then call me back. I’ll do what I can from here.”
“Watch your ass, Roman,” I warn, coaxing one-fifty out of the SUV, flying so hard down the I-95 I’m like a G-6. “If you get rumbled, our entire anti-trafficking operation goes up in smoke. We need every resource we have blowing Vindicta wide open. This stuff just got personal.”
“What about Dante?”
“I’ll deal with Dante,” I say grimly.
I’m speeding through some backstreet shithole when I spy a large parking garage. Swerving into the security bay, crashing through the barrier, I spiral up to the top floor with the speedometer barely dipping. The whine of cop cars is still trailing after me, but this SUV is top of the range and they’re not even tasting my gas fumes yet.
Pulling into the only spare space, I kill the engine and grab my gun. By the time their Toyota Tacomas reach the SUV, I’m already three floors down in the exit stairwell, my boots pounding out the “fuck you” anthem of survival.
Bursting through a doorway into a side street, I rejoin the main road at a flat sprint. There are a couple of cars parked nearby. The closest, a cherry-red Chevvy, has a kid and his date swapping saliva in the front seats. I wrench the driver’s door open like I’m a mean-eyed Papa with a baseball bat.