The Protected

“Don’t . . . she’s mine.”

Considering the man could barely move, Tucker wasn’t overly concerned at the moment. First, get Vaughnne out of there.

Then, he’d deal with this. He carried her a few feet away from the car, painfully aware of the few cars driving by, slowing down. One of them almost looked like she was going to stop. But then, at the last second, she sped on by. Good thinking, lady. As he reached the car, he saw that the occupant in the backseat had managed to get himself moving, more or less.

The guy in the front was dead.

Cardiac arrest, probably. Happened sometimes when a serious amount of voltage was directed into the body. Tucker didn’t entirely blame himself for the guy’s death. After all, nobody had made him kidnap Vaughnne. Tucker was just the tool used to help alleviate that situation; that was his story.

The other guy, well, whether he lived or died, it was his own choice.

And his odds lowered as he lifted his gun. Tucker really hated it when people pointed guns at him. The bastard held it at his side, partially blocking it with his body so those on the highway wouldn’t see. Tucker saw it, though, and that was the big problem.

“You should put that down before you get hurt,” he said, smiling a little.

“Are you here for the boy, too?” the man asked, his eyes bleary, but focusing more and more with every second.

Alarm flickered in the back of Tucker’s head. “No. I’m just here for her,” he replied easily. “I got her. I’m good.”

“Can’t have her. She’s our ticket to the kid . . . put her back in the car, shithead. Then walk away.”

“Can’t do that.” He eyed the man as he stepped out of the SUV, swaying a little. Blood spilled down his face from a cut on his forehead, and he slammed a hand against the vehicle to brace himself.

“You will do that,” the man said. His face folded in what Tucker assumed was supposed to be a menacing snarl, but as he continued to sway there, so close to that big pile of metal . . .

“You know, you’ve got about five seconds to decide if you want to live or die,” Tucker said. “If you want to live, get back in the truck. Otherwise . . .”

He let his words die off.

The guy laughed. “Dumb-ass. I am the one with the gun.”

“Yeah. But that gun can’t do this . . .” He emptied himself of the remnant energy boiling inside him. First on the man, forcing his way into the man’s mind and shutting down the electrical impulses, holding that until he saw the man stagger. The arm holding the gun lowered as the strain on his brain weakened him. Once the gun was no longer pointing at Tucker, he said one more time, “Last chance. If you want to live, you’re better off in the SUV.”

“Stu . . . stupid fuck.”

Tucker gave up holding himself in check.

It was almost like an orgasm, just letting go like that.

It would have been a beautiful thing, except he was painfully aware of the stink of burned flesh, painfully aware of the foul miasma as the man’s bowels and bladder released as he died, painfully aware of the gun as it hit the ground. Most modern weapons were equipped with safety features to keep them from accidental discharge, but still, Tucker wasn’t relying on that as he jerked to the side. Just in case. He didn’t trust safety features. He didn’t trust jack shit. Not even himself, most of the time.

With two dead bodies and no visible sign of what had killed them, he headed back to get Vaughnne. The entire exchange had happened in under two minutes. He knew this area. It would only take county cops five minutes, maximum, to get here. He had to move.

He was taking a chance moving her without knowing if she’d been injured, but he had to do it. They had to get to that kid.

That jackass back there, he hadn’t been at all surprised that somebody else might be looking for the kid. Which meant . . . what? He’d been expecting it?

Not good.

THIRTEEN

IT was an innocuous, dark blue sedan following them.

Gus had noticed it nearly thirty minutes earlier, and in those thirty minutes, it hadn’t once gotten any closer than it was now. Staying about a good fifty feet back, usually more. Sometimes two or three cars would get between them. Sometimes it would veer over into another lane, keeping that easy, casual distance, but there was no mistaking it . . . the car was following them.

And Alex was scared. It didn’t help that his fever had come back, either. Some Tylenol knocked the fever down, but nothing took the fear from his eyes. Sweat that had nothing to do with illness beaded on the boy’s forehead, and he sat there with his hands clenched in his lap, his entire body trembling.

Terrified.

“They found us again, Tio,” Alex said softly.

He didn’t respond. Fear spread through him, but giving voice to it wasn’t going to help Alex. It curdled in his belly, a twisted knot, but he accepted that fear, swallowing it down and welcoming it. He’d channel it. Make it his own, and use it.

They’d moved back onto the highway halfway through the afternoon and had made good time, leaving Florida behind nearly thirty minutes ago. But now, driving up I-65, speeding through Georgia, he felt like he was bashing his head against a brick wall.

He didn’t know where to go.

He’d been so sure if they just hit the road and got some distance between them, they’d be okay. Every other time somebody had tracked them down, all it had taken was a few hours and some distance and they’d lost them. Gus knew how to lose people.

You’ve never had to run from people who can track a psychic child, though, the dark, ugly voice of self-recrimination whispered from deep inside him.

No. He hadn’t had to do that before, had never realized it would be a concern. Even when Vaughnne—

Stop. Looking back wouldn’t help now. He hadn’t trusted her, and in all honesty, there had been no reason to trust her. He didn’t know her, had no reason to trust a total stranger. His experience with Alex over the years had served him well enough.

Things had changed and he’d fucked up.

Now he had to fix it. First, he had to get the hell away from the people trailing them.

He couldn’t take the boy on a high-speed chase. Not in the car he’d stolen.

And he had to ditch the car soon.

There was no way around that.

But if he stopped . . .

“They are going to hit us soon.” Alex’s voice was low, thin.

Gus swore.

Gripping the steering wheel, he looked back in the mirror and then at the cars all around them. “How are you feeling, m’hijo? How is your stomach? Your back?”

“I feel better with . . . um . . . that.” He shrugged, a restless jerky motion, and his cheeks were a dull, ruddy red. “I guess the medicine stuff is helping.”

Gus nodded shortly. “Good.”

“My head hurts . . . I’m . . .” Alex swallowed and looked away. “I’m trying to do what Vaughnne was showing me. It’s giving me a headache, but I don’t feel like I did yesterday.”

Vaughnne—

Mierda. He’d been trying not to think about her. She’d been right. He’d been wrong. There was no other explanation for how they’d been tracked down.