Page 18 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)
“Field training, sniper competition. Stuff like that. We didn’t have a lot of downtime to do things off-base.
” When they did, they mostly went to nearby bars and nightclubs to blow off steam.
Communing with nature had been low on the list of things to do, especially after spending so much time on base or out of the country on ops.
“What kind of training?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “Just making conversation. We’ve got what, forty-five minutes or so before we reach Sierra’s place?”
The GPS on the dash confirmed her estimate. “Give or take.”
“That’s a lot of time to fill.”
She unzipped her jacket, revealing that form-fitting shirt and pushup bra, and it was all he could do to keep both eyes on the hairpin turn in the road.
His grip tightened on the wheel. “You can fill it with quiet contemplation.”
“Or I could introduce you to the brilliance of Beyoncé. I have her entire catalog on my phone.”
Truth be told, he didn’t mind Beyoncé. In fact, her music appeared on several of his playlists.
By and large, his musical tastes depended on his mood.
Most of the time, he gravitated toward hard and grinding music like Mudvayne or Stone Sour.
Those were his go-to picks at the gym, or while he was sharpening his skills at the range.
Other times, he listened to classic rock, his choice for when he worked on his car.
But there were days he wanted something lighter to boost his mood, like Bruno Mars, Maroon 5, and, yes, even Beyoncé.
“What makes you think I don’t like her?” he asked.
“I’ve been in the parking lot when you come to work in the morning. If you’re not blasting Aerosmith or Van Halen, it’s something that sounds like the orcs are preparing for battle at Helm’s Deep.”
Guilty as charged. He snorted at that. “Tell you what. You play twenty minutes of Beyoncé, and I’ll play twenty minutes of Mudvayne. Deal?”
She shot him a dubious glance. “Would you be open to swapping out Mudvayne for Metallica?”
That worked. Metallica was one of his favorite bands. “Consider it done.”
While Sloane got busy loading her playlist, Navarre’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror.
The two vehicles had moved closer, though still far enough away to avoid presenting as a threat.
Even so, something about the situation made his senses tingle.
He reached for the two-way radio again and paused a moment to choose his words carefully so he wouldn’t needlessly alarm Sloane.
“Our new friends are getting closer.”
“Copy that.” This time, Garrett’s voice came over the tiny speaker. “We’re monitoring the situation and will engage if necessary.”
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Movies and television shows made it seem as if danger lurked around every corner of a celebrity’s life.
But in reality, most problems came from people with no respect for boundaries.
The majority of them didn’t mean any harm; they were just rude.
Some of them only needed a gentle yet firm reminder, but every so often you encountered a person who required a more forceful response.
They drove past an apple orchard, with its rows and rows of densely packed trees. In another month or two, they’d be in full bloom. If things worked out with this contract, he might get to see them.
It was his understanding that Sierra had purchased the property specifically for its isolated location, then had the original home torn down and built a new one to her exact specifications.
The result was a sprawling mountainside mansion, eight thousand square feet of living space with a game room, movie theatre, indoor swimming pool, and enough solar panels and battery capacity to keep the lights on in the event of a sustained power outage.
In addition, the home was equipped with the latest security technology, but it would also require a lot of manpower to ensure the property remained secure.
Even though the real Sierra wouldn’t be on site, they had to act as if she was.
Thankfully, Austin had listened to his concerns and brought extra staff to the estate.
The punchy beat of “Single Ladies” came over the SUV’s speakers. Sloane sang along, dancing in her seat, and the unabashed joy lighting her face hit him like a sucker punch.
Keep it professional , he reminded himself.
It was a damn good thing he planned to spend most of the weekend on outdoor duty, far away from temptation.
It didn’t matter that he’d freeze his ass off.
Keeping his job was more important. He forced his gaze back to the road, where it belonged, and refused to acknowledge the inappropriate thoughts filling his head.
Once again, farmland gave way to forest. Side streets were fewer and farther apart, many of them little more than dirt paths carved into the wilderness. The elevation climbed higher and higher, and the looming trees cast the road in shadows, even though it was mid-afternoon.
A flicker of movement caught Navarre’s eye as they passed one of the rutted streets.
His gaze darted to the rearview mirror, just in time to see a full-sized pickup truck, with a massive steel wraparound grill guard, barrel out of the side road.
It T-boned Jackson’s SUV, and the sickening sound of metal against metal made Navarre’s blood run cold.
The SUV careened off the road, the tires on one side digging into the dirt along the shoulder, causing the vehicle to flip once, twice, before plunging down the ravine and out of sight.
“Fuck!” Navarre cut the wheel as he entered a turn, the back end sliding a little because he was going way too fast. That was the least of his troubles right now. He compensated for the slide. When they reached the straightaway, he punched the gas, and the vehicle shot forward.
“Oh my God, why aren’t you stopping?” Sloane shouted, half turned in her seat, her voice a full octave higher than usual. “They need our help!”
Yes, they did, but years of training wouldn’t allow it. “That’s what they want us to do.”
“They who?”
“Fuck if I know, but that wasn’t an accident.” His grip tightened, his knuckles white against the wheel.
He wanted to stop, to make sure his friends and colleagues were okay, but he recognized an ambush when he saw one. He mentally kicked himself for not seeing it sooner, for not realizing the cars following them weren’t actual photographers.
There wasn’t anything he could do about that now.
Pushing the grim thoughts aside, Navarre’s gaze flicked to the mirror.
The vehicles that had been trailing them were picking up speed and gaining ground, while the truck, its front metal bumper dragging on the ground, backed out of the ditch to join the pursuit.
“You mean they—” Shock widened Sloane’s eyes. “That was on purpose?”
He bit back his sarcastic response, because picking a fight in the middle of a car chase wasn’t going to do them any good.
“Is your phone working?” He flicked her a glance. “Can you call Jackson?”
She grabbed her phone, swiped at the screen, and frowned. “No signal.”
He had a feeling she was going to say that. The GPS on the dash had gone offline moments after the truck rammed Jackson’s vehicle. Either this neck of the woods had shit for reception, or their pursuers were jamming the signal. Either way, they were on their own.
“Hang on!” he barked. “And stay low. You’re not getting killed on my watch.”
In the city, he’d stand a decent chance of outmaneuvering the other vehicles, or losing them within the labyrinth of streets crisscrossing the landscape.
He didn’t have that luxury out here, just a winding stretch of rural road with three hostiles in pursuit.
His only chance was to stay out of reach until they got to Sierra’s property.
That feat would be a lot easier to accomplish if their rental car wasn’t such a pokey piece of shit. The winding roads made it damn near impossible to build up any kind of speed, and it wouldn’t be long before the vehicles in his rearview mirror closed the remaining distance.
If the real Sierra was their intended target, they were in for one hell of a surprise. Unfortunately for them, once the hostiles figured out they were chasing an imposter, he and Sloane were as good as dead.
The SUV fishtailed as he rounded the next hairpin turn.
Navarre turned the wheel in the direction of the skid and took his foot off the gas long enough for the tires to regain traction and hold the road.
It worked, but it also gave the other vehicles ample opportunity to catch up with them.
One of them swerved into the oncoming lane and pulled up alongside them.
A dark-tinted window on the rear passenger side rolled down, revealing a white guy dressed in black with a big fucking gun that was pointed directly at them.
Teeth gritted, Navarre wrenched the wheel hard to the left and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
The SUV veered into the oncoming lane, sideswiping the pursuing vehicle and forcing it off the road.
Gunfire erupted from behind, each crack punctuating the chaos.
One of their rear tires blew, and as the SUV lurched to the right, he fought to maintain control.
Sloane screamed at the top of her lungs.
His blood ran cold. “Are you hit?”
“No, I’m scared shitless.” Her face was white, her eyes wild with fear. “I thought you said the tires were bulletproof.”
“Nothing is completely bulletproof.” Technically, a run-flat tire could handle a bullet in the sense that it wouldn’t blow out upon impact like a regular tire. Instead, the reinforced sidewalls would allow the vehicle to be driven a limited distance at a reduced speed.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t afford to drive at a reduced speed, not if they wanted to stay alive. He had no choice but to keep his foot on the gas and use every last bit of his skill to keep the SUV on the road.