“Shit!” She cranked hard on the wheel to avoid it, but grazed her side-view mirror, ripping it so it hung by wires. The glass was shattered, but she didn’t stop. The van spun around the corner, and in the splintered reflection, she spied the guy still chasing her, frantically waving his hands.
“Hey! Stop! Fuck!”
Her heart was already pounding crazily, her breathing shallow, her hands shaking on the wheel. She’d been certain he was going to fire a gun through her windshield, hitting her and causing her van to go out of control, careening through the garage, possibly hitting a pillar or another car or something, but definitely killing her.
But she’d been wrong.
Nope.
Not gonna happen.
With one eye in the rearview, knowing he could catch her, she sped down the two floors to the exit, paid the attendant, and didn’t wait for change, just shot out of the building the minute the barricade bar lifted.
Barely glancing to her left, she joined oncoming traffic and suffered the sharp honk of a truck that was forced to brake, then maneuver around her. The driver shook his fist, but she didn’t care. “Get over it!” she muttered, but didn’t return the hand gesture. Better not to get him pissed off. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. No doubt the parking structure had cameras, and if the guy she nearly ran over wanted to cause trouble, he could, she supposed. There was the evidence of her broken mirror, but for now, she’d forget it, deal with the fallout when it came and take her grandmother’s age-old advice of not borrowing trouble.
“It’ll find you, soon enough,” Gramma Jean had said often enough. “It’s best not to go lookin’ for it.”
Amen to that, Charity thought, as she drove toward the Bay Bridge, which stretched across the dark water to the winking lights of Oakland and her small, almost seedy motel room, where the daily rate was still far too steep for the lousy, paper-thin walls, sagging mattress on the bed, and cheesy Internet service. If only she could afford something in the city with a penthouse view, spa service . . . God, even room service would be a luxury over the partially filled vending machine in the hallway of the Good Bay Motel, where there was nothing good about it and the bay was half a mile away.
She eased off the bridge and wound her way through the city streets of Oakland. Her heart rate finally returned to normal, and she loosened her grip on the steering wheel. For now, she pushed the image of the man in the parking garage out of her mind and wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that she’d nearly run him down. It was over. At least for now.
When she saw the neon sign for the Good Bay, she let out her breath. “Home sweet home,” she said, almost meaning it, as she wheeled into the lot. The minivan bounced over a pothole in the asphalt.
Clunk!
Something bounced in the cargo area behind her.
Crap!
Probably a piece of equipment that had come loose from its bindings and was shifting. Oh, God, please not one of her expensive cameras.
She pulled into her parking slot and reached for her keys.
Something passed in the rearview mirror, a shadow in the dark, obscuring the back window and her view of the empty lot behind her.
What the hell?
A frisson of fear skittered down her spine.
It’s nothing!
She licked her lips and cut the engine, her hands still on the key ring.
And she reached for the door, which was when the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of her neck.
Her insides turned to water.
Oh. God.
Panic flooded through her.
“Don’t move,” a whispered voice ordered.
Like hell!
Charity yanked the keys from the ignition and swiped blindly backward with her right hand. A yowl of surprise cut through the van.
The gun shifted.
She scrabbled for the door handle.
“No, you don’t!” the voice warned.
The door flew open.
She fell out. Tried to get up.
Whoever it was tumbled after her, climbing over the seat and falling atop her, pressing her against the cold, hard pavement.
Charity started to scream, but a gloved hand clamped over her mouth, and in the watery light from a single security lamp, she looked up and saw eyes staring down at her.
Malicious eyes.
Eyes she’d seen before.
A new fear surged through her.
She struggled and saw the butt of a gun being raised with her assailant’s free hand.
NO!
Her scream was muffled, resounding only in her head as she twisted and writhed to no avail.
The pistol slammed into her face.
Her nose exploded in a burst of pain.
Blood spurted.
Still she fought, trying to scoot away from this maniac’s weight, the rough asphalt tearing at her coat. Her legs were useless, kicking at the air but striking nothing, as the would-be killer straddled her.
Get off me! Get off!
She bit at the hand holding her mouth, the taste of stained leather filling her mouth. The gun was raised again, this time dripping blood.
Wouldn’t someone come along? Someone to help her? There was traffic on the street running in front of the motel. Surely someone would see that she was being attacked! Oh, please!
The gun came down again.
Hard.
Craaaack!
With a sickening crunch, she heard the bones in her cheek shatter.
Her scream was muffled as agony ripped through her.
Blackness seeped into the corners of her vision.
No!
Charity tried to hit back, flailing wildly with both her arms, fingers raking the air, striking nothing.
Again, the horrid weapon was raised.
Why? Why would this person want her dead?
That, she realized, was the ultimate goal.
Through the haze of blood and pain, she saw the butt of the pistol come down again. With a force born of fury.
Craaaack!
A
