Page 57 of Facing the Enemy

I crept to the pickup, leaning precariously on the driver’s side. He still had a gun in his right hand. I shrugged out of my sweatshirt, then wound it around my hand three times and yanked open the driver’s door. The man inside stared back at me with vacant eyes, a mix of blood and open flesh. Nothing more I could do for him. Death at my own hand never set well, although some would argue the driver had chosen his own actions. They’d be right, but I would have risked my own life to pull him from the burning car. I stepped back several feet.

The driver and Carson rushed toward me.

“Don’t you two listen?” I said. “You could have been hurt.”

“Is he alive?” the truck driver said, a man in his midfifties, faded ball cap, and scraggly salt-and-pepper beard.

“No.” I shielded my eyes from the fiery furnace. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your ear is bleeding.”

I’d forgotten. I turned to Carson. “Were you shot?” When he affirmed he was fine, I asked, “Did you call Gage?”

“I told him what happened, all of it. He’s calling for help, and heneeds to talk to you.” Carson’s pale face and trembling body showed he’d had enough excitement. “Has someone been following us?”

“It appears so. Thanks for calling Gage.”

Carson shook his head. “I’ve never seen shooting or driving like that.”

“Me either. If I hadn’t been scared, I’d have been gawkin’,” the semitruck driver said. “Hold on, miss. I have a first aid kit in my rig.” He trotted to his truck.

“Carson, do you recognize the pickup?”

“No. Wish I knew if he was after you or me.”

“As I said before, both of us. You know too much, and the driver assumed you’d told me the whole story.” The shock had started to wear off, and my ear stung. “I will find out his name.”

“How? You’re not with the FBI anymore.”

The semitruck driver returned with a small metal box hosting a red cross painted on top. His presence gave me freedom not to answer Carson’s question. The man flipped open the first aid kit and peered at me. “Hydrogen peroxide work for you?”

I nodded and he tore open a package containing a soaked pad of the antiseptic. I placed it over my earlobe, then examined it. Guess I wouldn’t be wearing earrings for a while. “It’s nothing. The ear bleeds easily.”

“I thought we were dead.” Carson stared into the fire.

“The idea crossed my mind,” I said. “Training helps.”

“Lady, what do you do for a living?” the driver said.

“I’m a college professor. Creative writing.”

30

GAGE

Risa’s brush with death made me crazy worried. She could handle herself, and I’d seen her squeeze out impossible shots and drive like a maniac. Except I hadn’t been with her in the Explorer. The incident happened on a deserted stretch of highway. Fortunately the state highway patrol was nearby, and I confirmed she and Carson were a part of an FBI case. She still made it to the transfer spot only two hours late—after stopping to eat in San Antonio. Did I even want to know how fast she drove?

Now with Carson beside me, I needed to garner the kid’s trust.

“Ready to ride with Risa again?” I added lightness to my voice to slow his heart rate.

“Not sure.” Carson laughed but it failed to sound natural. “Depends on who’s chasing us. Or how fast I want to get somewhere. I mean, I like math, but I never saw any calculations like she made at the last minute turning in front of that semi. Did Quantico teach her how to drive like a stuntman?”

“I think her dad has those honors. He’d been a race car driver in his younger years. The first time I experienced Risa in action behind the wheel, I about lost my lunch.” I glanced at him.

“Don’t stop now. What happened? Did anyone get hurt?”

Carson asked more questions than the psychologist who analyzed me after debriefing a difficult case. Probably the same shrink who’d evaluate Carson.