His quarry had only driven a mile when the black car slowed and pulled to the side of the road to stop.
Broch slowed as well, remaining in the middle of the road.
Whyfur wid they dae that?
Two men stepped out of the back of the long car, guns drawn.
Shite.
Ah fergot aboot the infernal phanes.
The men he’d left behind had no doubt called the men in the black car, warning them they’d lost the van.
Shite. Shite. Shite.
Broch slammed the van into reverse with a screeching of tires as a spray of bullets headed his way. He’d stopped far enough back that only a few reached their destination. He was grateful, because he suspected the van’s engine looked something like Swiss cheese. He didn’t know very much about modern automobiles, but felt sure only a miracle was keeping him moving now.
Clear of the bullets’ reach, he turned and roared in the opposite direction.
When the black car was nothing more than a dot on the horizon, he slowed the van to a halt, waiting to see if they came after him. They didn’t. They didn’t go back to pick up their men, either. They must have continued, headed for whatever place they’d always planned to go.
Broch ran both hands through his hair.
Whit dae ah dae noo?
He needed to go back. He needed to follow the long black car and find out where they were taking Catriona.
But that would be impossible. They’d know it was him. They’d shoot at him again, or worse, do something to harm the women. The last thing they would do is lead him to their hideout.
He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. When he opened them again, he noticed a thin stream of smoke rising from the front of the van.
Och.
He didn’t have long to get where he was going in the bullet-riddled van. That much was clear.
This is all Alain’s fault. That wee French—
Broch’s jaw creaked open as the clouds darkening his mind parted and the beam of an idea shone down.
That’s it. It was all Alain’s fault. He was the one who had called these men.
Alain knows them.
He needed to get back to Las Vegas before the van died.
Broch pressed the gas and the thin stream of smoke escaping the front hatch billowed, pouring from the seals. The engine shuttered and shut off. Broch tried the key and the engine made a dry coughing noise.
He wouldn’t be taking the van anywhere, anytime soon.
He dropped his head to the steering wheel.
Shite.
Chapter Seventeen
Broch stood on the side of the road with his hands on his hips, staring across the desert landscape. The merciful sun had decided to dim its glaring brilliance, and in the dying light he could see the glow of Las Vegas in the distance.
But he was no fool.
Walking across the desert would be the death of him, sun or no sun. The terrain appeared treacherous and his throat already cracked with thirst.
Somewhere during the last hour he’d lost the phone Catriona had given him, so he had no way of calling the drivers who always came to his aid back in Los Angeles.
The black car with Catriona and Mo inside had headed in a direction parallel to the glow of Las Vegas, but he suspected the road curved towards the city soon enough. Broch reasoned Volkov had to be taking his hostages back to Vegas, because he couldn’t fathom people had built more than one town in the middle of the godforsaken sea of sand and rock around him.
He walked in the direction the black car had driven. Best to put some distance between himself and the van with the three bodies inside. He didn’t understand every law of the land, but Catriona had made it clear to him that killing people wasn’t something to be taken lightly, even in self-defense.
In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten that bit.
A thumping beat thrummed in Broch’s chest.
My heart? Na…
Music reached his ears and he realized the beat belonged to it. He heard the vehicle before he saw it. Turning, he saw a car headed in his direction. The music grew louder as it neared.
Broch raised a hand and the car slowed, pulling to the side of the road a few yards in front of him. As it passed, he saw the female driver’s head turning, as if she were arguing with other people in the car.
Broch jogged to the vehicle as the back window lowered and the music swelled louder. A jumble of screeching voices called to have the music turned down and it dropped until he could hear little more than the driving beat.
There were four middle-aged women in the back of the car staring at him, their eyes wild, teeth flashing as they giggled. Their faces were painted with more makeup than Catriona wore, but less than he saw on the actresses wandering around the studio lot every day.
“Hey there, sexy,” said the woman in the back seat closest to him. She reached up and fingered the scarf still dangling from his neck. “Need a ride?”
“Is that a Modacious scarf?” asked another woman.
“Why would he be wearing a Modacious scarf?” asked another.
The women’s voices melted into giggles.
“Are you a stripper?” called the woman sitting in the passenger seat, her body twisting to better peer at him.
Broch recalled the billboard he’d seen of the scantily clad women. Catriona had referred to them as strippers. He glanced down to be sure his clothing hadn’t shifted during his struggles. He appeared properly covered.
“Na. Ah’m nae a stripper. Ah need a ride—”
“Ooh! I volunteer!” said
