None of that matters. He’s here. He obviously cares about Beckett. He’s helping. That’s enough.
She pulled off the shoulder and back onto the road, heading the way they’d originally come. The road the Corvette had disappeared down looked downright sinister now, but that was her imagination taking over. It wasn’t any different from the first time they’d driven past it. Greenery encroached on the gravel drive as if waging a war to eliminate any evidence that men had ever settled in this place. The marshes had always been like that—a little too untamed for her tastes—but they had never left a cold spot in her chest before.
The marshes would be an excellent place to hide a body if someone was familiar enough with them to sink it correctly. The ecosystem would take care of any evidence, given enough time.
“He has to be okay.”
“He is,” Frank opened the glove box and pulled out a small handgun. “You know how to shoot.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered all the same. “Yes, though I don’t practice regularly.”
He nodded and went through the motions of checking the cartridge and chamber as they bumped along the road. “You shouldn’t have to use it, but I’m still leaving it with you.”
In case things go all to hell.
She caught sight of a flash of red ahead of them and slowed until they barely crawled along. “Up ahead.”
“I see it.” He reached into the space behind the seats and pulled out a fucking shotgun.
Samara gripped the wheel harder to keep the shaking of her hands under control. She wasn’t trained for this. Her mother sent her to a gun safety course when she was in middle school because Samara was a woman and may have to protect herself at some point. She owned a handgun, but it was in a locked case at the top of her closet. She hadn’t done more than clean it in years.
Beckett. This is for Beckett.
“Stop here.”
She braked, grateful that she had a clear view of the Corvette. She could see the back of Walter’s head, but not Beckett’s. “Bring him back safely, Frank.”
He passed over the handgun and waited until she nodded to shift his grip on the shotgun and climb out of the car. Samara watched him stalk toward the Corvette, keeping in what she suspected was the driver’s blind spot. I never want to be on his bad side. She checked the mirror to ensure that no one had come in after them, blocking their getaway. There wasn’t room to turn around, which meant she’d have to reverse a good portion of the way back to the main street. Tricky. Trickier if we’re being chased or in a hurry.
“I can do it,” she whispered, needing to say the words aloud to make them truth. She checked Frank’s position. He’d reached the back fender of the Corvette.
Showtime.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beckett had managed to regain control of all his toes. He suspected he had more than that, but he wasn’t willing to risk testing with Walter so close. The man sat staring at the marshes in front of them as if psyching himself up for something.
Probably to put that gun in his hand to good use.
He’d stashed a .45 in the car and had brought it out as soon as they were parked. From what Beckett could see from his slumped position, they were somewhere within the many miles of coastal marshes that bracketed the area around Houston. East of the city. He wasn’t sure where, though. Even if he’d managed to get a call out for help, he was too far for anyone to make it in time.
“It didn’t have to be this way.” Walter spoke softly, almost as if talking to himself. “If you’d just taken her offer, she would have let you walk away. I don’t think she really wants you dead, Beckett. You’re nothing to her. Just the son of the man she loathes.” He chuckled. “The man we both loathe. Hell, the man we all loathe.” His laugh took on a hysterical tinge.
Walter showed every evidence of being a man in over his head with no way of reaching the surface. Beckett knew better than to try to bargain. Lydia had the man by the balls and he’d see this through to the end because he couldn’t imagine another way out. He’d killed Nathaniel and he’d try to kill Beckett, too.
And then she’d really own his soul.
Walter looked down at the gun cradled in his hands. “Can’t do it in the Vette. Talk about evidence.” He kept laughing as if hearing the funniest joke. “Then where would we be?”
If he let Walter get out of this car, his chances of survival dropped exponentially. Beckett could fight, but he wasn’t at full capacity. Walter would hesitate to pull the trigger in here, which meant he’d hold back. It was Beckett’s only chance.
He lunged, the move nowhere near as smooth as it had been in his head. Instead of snatching the gun from Walter’s unsuspecting hands, he head-butted the man and half collapsed on his side of the car, pinning him in place. Good enough.
“Fuck! Jesus! Fuck!” Walter tried to scramble out from beneath him, but Beckett wedged his arm awkwardly in the way of the seat belt. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Movement out the back window distracted him. He frowned, half sure the drug effects had evolved from paralysis into hallucinations, because there was no way in hell that Frank’s R8 was sitting thirty feet behind the Corvette, Samara behind the wheel.
“Shuddup, Walter.” He pressed down on the smaller man, concentrating on cutting off his ability to take deep breaths. Beckett had only one chance at this, which meant he had to get control of his fucking tongue. “You listening?”
“Fuck you, Beckett!”
“Good nuff.”
