Page 3 of Rastor

I leaned toward the guy and said it again, lower, quieter. "Run."

But the guy didn't run. And neither did his friend.

Too bad.

Apparently, they were smarter than they looked. Between the trunk or freedom here, inthisneighborhood, they were choosing the trunk.

Smart for them. Disappointing for me.

The way it looked, we were back to Plan A.

I gave the guys a hard look. "Alright, here's the deal. You wanna run, this is your chance. It's youronlychance."

The guys exchanged another glance. Funny, they were awful quiet compared to earlier, when they'd been yelling loud enough to wake the dead. I knew the reason for their new and improved silence.

I glanced around. It was this place. Even idiots like them knew better than to attract the wrong kind of attention in a neighborhood this shitty.

The guy in the black briefs gave a small shudder. From the cold? Or fear? Who knew? Who cared? Maybe he should've worn long johns.

Not my problem.

Brief-guy spoke up. "What if we don't? What then?"

"If you don't run?" I leaned back. "Well, then I've got an offer. And you'd be smart to take it."

In a few short sentences, I laid it out. We were taking them someplace else, someplace safer, but a lot more public. They'd have to explain themselves, probably to a crowd, and later, likely to the cops.

If they so much as whispered Chloe's name – or mine, or Bishop's – well, in that case, they'd be going on another trunk-ride. But this time, I'd be dropping them here, whether they liked it or not.

"So," I told them, "your story had better be good." I made a show of looking around. "Or else."

Soon, I was back behind the wheel. This time, there was no thumping. I'd used the knife, but not in the way I'd wanted. Instead, I'd cut their ropes and slammed the trunk shut again, leaving them to come up with a decent story for when we stopped next.

Forty minutes later, we were there.

And twenty minutes after that, so was she – Chloe.

The girl I loved, the girl I'd lost.

Chapter 2

Hidden in a horde of gawkers, I soaked up the sight of her. She was standing on the opposite side of the crowd, near its outer edges. She was talking to some shaggy-haired guy while the rest of the crowd watched and waited.

In the center of the action was the sedan, along with a couple of cops, who were studying the car's trunk in obvious confusion. The trunk was locked, and the sedan was familiar – to me, anyway.

It was the same car I'd been driving earlier. Now, it was parked between two large tour busses, massive silver things that had provided the perfect cover for the initial setup. None of this was an accident. The busses, along with the sedan, were there by design.

My design.

The sedan was covered in graffiti and thumping like crazy. The thumping – and yeah, some yelling – was coming from the trunk. And that was fine by me.

At this point, they could thump and yell all they wanted. But if they said the wrong thing to the wrong person, there'd be hell to pay. And they damn well knew it. At the thought, I almost smiled. Part of me hoped theywouldtalk.

Who knows? It might be fun. Well, not for them, but hey, that wasn't my problem either.

No. My problems were different.

My girl – I needed to win her back.