this job. She had a frightening feeling that it would be her last. And not in a good, retirement type of way. Somehow, though, Sangria knew refusal wasn’t an option.
“I figured that out the moment I heard your voice,” Sangria answered trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“Good girl. I knew you were smart.” The woman chuckled, but it brought no warmth to Sangria. “Take the turnpike off Ventura and make your way to Rochester. Someone will meet you there.”
Sangria turned in her seat, scanning the boulevard, looking for parked cars, or buildings from which someone could be watching. She saw nothing but passing vehicles and large flashy billboards. Maybe her vehicle was tagged with a tracker.
“This will be the last communication we have.” The woman paused, and then stated acidly, “Unless there is a problem. And Sangria, you better hope that never happens.”
The woman clicked off, leaving Sangria close to hyperventilating. Ripping the communicator off her head, she shuffled across the seat, opened the passenger door, and jumped out onto the shoulder. Instantly the oppressive heat suffocated her. Although it was nearing dusk, there was no relief to the stifling summer weather.
As she took in some cleansing breaths, sweat started to dribble down Sangria’s face and neck, soaking the collar of her white cotton t-shirt. But she knew it wasn’t just because of the temperature.
She knew there would come a time when she wriggled into something way over her head. A person didn’t do the job she did and not know that they teetered on the edge of immorality and danger. She just didn’t realize how instantly it could sweep over her, pulling her down into a terror-filled void.
Leaning against her vehicle for support to try to ease her strangled breathing, Sangria quickly went over her options. And realized she pretty much didn’t have any. If she didn’t show up at the pickup address, she knew that no matter where she went, the ice woman on the phone would track her down and eliminate her. The fact that Sangria didn’t know the woman’s identity and hadn’t taken any money seemed to her inconsequential.
The only thing she could do was to pick up the package and safely deliver it to the Vegas destination. She had executed thousands of deliveries without issue. There was no reason that this one wouldn’t be the same.
Pushing away from the vehicle somewhat relieved, Sangria almost believed that. If it wasn’t for the cold creeping along her spine that ended on her skull, causing her short bone-white hair to stand on end, she could almost believe anything.
Two
She met with two burly men dressed casually in shorts and tank tops at the corner of Rochester and Selby just as she was instructed. When she pulled up to the curb, they hefted the shiny metal case into her Hummer and handed her a black duffel bag. Without a word, they walked around the corner, jumped into a nondescript four-door sedan, and drove away.
After they had driven away, Sangria had jumped out of her vehicle again and slid under it on her back to check the under-carriage for any tracking devices. She had found two.
Swearing that she’d been so reckless and stupid for not inspecting her Hummer every day, Sangria had smashed the metal devices off with her tire iron. Although she knew it wouldn’t matter. Certainly, the case had been installed with a tracer.
She had jumped back into the vehicle and checked the bag. It was full of money, but not nearly enough for two million. There was a typed noted inside stuck to one of the money stacks.
The sun was down by the time Sangria turned onto the I-15 heading toward Las Vegas. So far, everything was going as planned, and she managed to relax a little and enjoy the ride. Pushing a button on the dash, classical music blasted from her four built-in speakers. The Hummer’s controls were programmed to respond to her moods. And right now, she needed the soothing sounds of Mozart.
Humming to the music, Sangria didn’t see the semi that jumped the meridian and came barreling toward her with its headlights off.
The next few moments were mostly a blur. She didn’t remember jerking on the steering wheel and ramming into the side of the semitrailer. Or the flipping of the vehicle, as it turned over and over, landing-remarkably-back onto its wheels in the ditch. All she could remember were the grunts and groans she heard resounding in her ears. Surprisingly, it had sounded like more than one voice echoing around her.
Sangria didn’t know how long she sat still strapped into the driver’s seat, blood dripping down her forehead, until reason and awareness slapped her in the face. Putting a hand to her aching head, she surmised that she had a large cut on the crown. Looking at the red-splattered spider-webbed wind-shield, it wasn’t hard for her to guess from what.
Turning in her seat, she took inventory of the damage to her vehicle. The black bag was still there, jammed under the passenger seat. Her personal effects were strewn on the floor and seat from the glove compartment that had flown open. Seeing that triggered a horrible thought, and she spun in her seat.
The trunk door of the Hummer was open, and so was the hidden door in the floor. Damn it, she’d forgotten to padlock it!
Unhooking her seat belt, Sangria tried to open her door. It wouldn’t budge. The frame was bent inward, and she was very lucky that it hadn’t rammed into her side. Shuffling across the passenger seat, she tried that door, and discovered the same damage. She slid between the front seats, crawled into the back, and peered down into the false bottom of her vehicle. The compartment was empty. The case was missing.
With a cry of alarm, she jumped out of the back. Pain-immediate and sharp-ripped up her side, making her head spin. Looking down, she noticed blood blossoming on her t-shirt from under her arm. She lifted her shirt and noticed a long cut on her left side.
Letting her shirt fall, she scanned the surroundings near the accident. The semi was nowhere to be seen. He obviously fled the scene. The driver was probably driving drunk, or had fallen asleep at the wheel. But when her eyes settled on something only three feet away, her injuries and everything else was immediately forgotten.
The case lay on its side all banged up, with the lid wide open.
She stumbled toward it, realizing that the cut on her head was making her a tiny bit woozy. As she neared, all the breath left her lungs, and she doubled over almost throwing up. She was in deep shit, and she didn’t have a shovel.
Lying on the ground a few inches from the case was a man. Bound and gagged but alive, he looked straight at her with wide vivid blue eyes.
“Fuck,” she whispered as she collapsed to her knees beside him. Her legs were quivering too violently to support her any longer.
Rolling over, he shuffled to her on his side, his eyes beseeching her to end his misery. Blood streaked his chiseled face and dampened the cloth gagging him.
With a trembling hand, Sangria reached over and pulled the gag out from between his full lips.
He sighed. “Oh thank God.” He moved his mouth open and closed, stretching out, what she assumed, were cramped jaw muscles.
“Who are you?” she asked, shock slowly creeping over her.
“Vance Verona.” He raised his bound hands behind him. “Can you cut these, please?”
“What-” She paused, rubbing a hand over her face in frustration, and then started again. “Why…what the fuck is going on?”
“I have a one-way ticket to the Blue Room district in Vegas,” he explained as he tried to pull apart the ropes binding his hands. “I’m a sex worker. Usually I entertain the most powerful women in the country, but I must have pissed someone off.”
“Do you think?”
