Page 4 of Velvet and Valor (Platinum Security: Shadows of LA #4)
JUNE
“You’re so nervous. Relax.”
The blade-thin man pours liquor into a silver mixer and adds a few slices of lemon, and a sprinkle of salt. He shakes it around with gusto and pours two glasses.
My phone is in my purse. I could try and text someone for help. But what would this man do if I tried? There’s a bad energy about this stranger. He seems civilized on the surface, but I can almost feel the monster hiding on the inside. I can’t work up the nerve to call for help. Not yet.
“Here,” he says, pushing one of the glasses into my hand.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I lie.
“I insist,” he says.
I grit my teeth. “Well, it is my policy never to refuse insistent strange men in limos.” I take a tentative sip, hoping I am not being roofied, and my eyes widen. “This is tasty.”
“My personal Tom Collins recipe,” the man says. “I have to say, you’re not what I expected. You look just as I pictured, but you are seemingly unpolished, untrained.”
“And what makes you think I don’t have training?” I counter. Oh man, if they figure out that I’m not who they think I am, I’m as good as dead. I have to keep the ruse up until I get out of this death trap.
“Nothing overt, I assure you,” he says, holding up a restraining palm. His eyes are surprisingly empathetic. “In my experience, those that are drawn to our line of work, tend toward stony silence. You’re refreshing.”
“Um, thanks?” I say. “For a criminal mastermind, you have excellent manners.”
He laughs, face wrinkling up with what I think is genuine mirth. If not for the circumstances, I would almost find this guy charming. He’d make one hell of a studio exec. One of the cutthroat, ruthless ones.
“Oh, mastermind is a great deal above my pay-grade,” he says. “I’m much like yourself, a facilitator for those who do the real moving and shaking.”
Funny, he kind of just described my job at the studio. This guy is like the slightly off-putting but funny uncle I never had. And definitely never wanted.
“Well, I won’t be able to relax until the job is done,” I say just so I don’t sit there looking stupid.
“Ah. You’re new at this,” he says, nodding. “It all makes sense now. If you decide to stay on in this line of work, please don’t lose that brassy attitude. It will open doors and make people take notice of you. That’s your chief currency in this industry.”
Man, he’s good at shadowboxing around the truth. We’ve been talking the entire ride, and I still don’t know what he does, who he is, who he works for, or what he wants.
Clearly, it’s something shady. Blade-man didn’t object when I labeled him a criminal, so I guess there’s that much I’ve learned.
“So, what’s the itinerary?” I ask with sudden inspiration. Maybe that’s something this guy will share with me.
His posture changes subtly. More businesslike, I suppose. Colder, too. Definitely colder.
“We will ferry you to the Lucrecia Cove Marina. At that time, you will board the yacht Go For Broke as a guest of one Ming Xa. Ming Xa will relieve you of your duties at that time.”
He stops talking. But I still have questions.
“Um, I think you left out the part of what happens to me afterward. I’m not expected to go around the world on a yachting expedition, am I?”
“You will be returned to the marina after nightfall, having enjoyed the hospitality of a luxury class vessel with plenty of food…and party favors if you get my meaning.”
He waggles his little finger, which has an extended nail. I thought people stopped doing that in the late 80s. Possibly even the 70s.
“Great,” I say, plastering a smile on my face.
I swallow audibly as I watch his eyes narrow suspiciously. “Tell me, how is the engine oil?”
“The engine oil…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Ah…what?”
“How is the engine oil?” he repeats.
Oh fuck. I’ve seen enough spy movies to know that I’ve royally screwed up. This is some kind of coded phrase, which means he is finally realizing I’m not who he thinks I am. If I don't come up with the right response, there is no telling what he might do now.
I shift around nervously when I spot a swiftly passing road sign.
“Hey, I thought you said we were headed to the marina? Highway 63 is basically desert,” I say as my mind pieces together what that means for me.
I have no idea who these men are, or what they want, but I know being in a remote location with them cannot be good for my health. What I need now is a miracle.
“Hey boss,” the driver calls from up front. “There’s this black muscle car that's been following us for a while.”
Blade’s eyes narrow, and he gives me a look as if to say I’m not done with you, yet. But he does turn his attention elsewhere for the time being.
“Are you certain?” he asks the driver.
“No, but he’s been with us a while.”
“Get off the highway for a bit, then get back on and see if he follows.”
My heart skips a beat. Is there someone following us for real? Is it a cop? I hope it’s a cop. I guess it could also be whoever they think I am. In that case, I’m probably not going to be rescued.
The limo changes lanes and prepares to get off on the exit ramp. But the muscle car pours on a burst of speed, engine gunning like an angry hornet’s nest. It flashes past us so fast I can’t get a good look at the driver.
“What the hell?” Our driver snaps. “He’s blocking us!”
“Then I’d say he’s definitely trouble,” Blade says, fastening his seat belt. I do the same after a moment, deciding it can’t hurt. “We can’t let him stop us.”
The driver reaches into the center console beside him and pulls out a pistol. I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a shriek when I see it. Fuck, I knew I was in over my head but a gun?
My heart sinks, whoever is in the muscle car is about to be in for a bad time.
The driver takes aim, but the muscle car slams on its brakes and the first barrage of bullets flies harmlessly out the window. The muscle car slides into the lane behind us, and then accelerates.
“I think he’s going to—”
I jerk forward hard against the seat belt as the muscle car rams us. Blade’s eyes bulge out of his head.
“Is that guy nuts?” he sputters. “We’re heavier! Push him off the road!”
The limo driver throws the wheel hard to the left. We swerve crazily along the road, tires squealing. The muscle car flashes past us, then slams on its own brakes. I brace for impact as we careen toward the concrete barrier in the center of the freeway.
The limo’s rear flank smashes into the barrier. Our drink glasses turn into missiles, bouncing around the back and causing pain when they hit. I cover my face with one hand while clinging to the briefcase with my other. It’s the only weapon I have; I was bluffing about the pepper spray.
Regaining control, our driver guns the engine and aims right for the muscle car. I get a brief flash of the other driver. Long hair, strong jaw, and a look of supreme concentration are the only details I can glean in that instant.
The muscle car almost makes it out of our path. Almost. The front edge of the limo clips the rear bumper of the black car. I’m braced for the impact, and it still rattles the teeth in my head. Blade man cries out as one of the bouncing drink glasses cracks into his temple.
“Are you okay, Mr. Moorcrock?” the driver shouts.
“You idiot,” he snarls, holding a hand up to the red mark on his head. “No names!”
“Sorry Mr. Moor–boss!”
“Jesus Christ,” Moorcrock sputters. “Are you kidding me right now? Just drive the damn car! That maniac is trying to hit us again.”
I throw a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, the ‘maniac’ in question is gunning hard for us. His vehicle doesn’t seem to have sustained much damage in the collision. But is that good news or bad news for me?
Just because the long haired guy in the black car is their enemy doesn’t mean he's my friend.
The irony of being in a car chase down the LA freeway when I’m in the movie industry is not lost on me. Unlike the movies, though, there are no stuntmen and no retakes. If we crash, we could all end up dead.
Traffic grows heavier. Orange signs declare construction ahead. Hope explodes in my chest. Road work means people. People who might be able to help me out of this jam. It also means the limo will have to slow down or even stop. Maybe I can even escape.
That is, if the guy in the black car doesn’t kill us all first. He’s coming up fast behind us, growing larger in the back windshield.
Moorcrock glares at the brawny man next to him.
“Take care of this,” he says, menace heavy in his tone.
The big man draws a pistol and rolls down the limo’s driver side rear window. His size makes getting a clean shot difficult. It’s almost funny watching him try.
“Quit fucking around, you goon,” Moorcrock snaps.
The big man, spurred on by Moorcrock, shoves the entirety of his body from the waist up out of the window. He finally is able to aim. I plug my ears in anticipation of the gunshot, because the big man is holding a hand cannon--
The limo crosses the yellow line into the adjacent lane at just the wrong time. A bus peels the big man right out of the window. He vanishes so quickly it almost seems surreal.
The muscle car swerves wildly to the side, missing the big man as he tumbles wildly down the tarmac. The tow truck behind the muscle car, however, doesn’t have the time or the agility to dodge.
I close my eyes right before the big man’s head goes under the front truck tire. All that’s left of him is one of his shoes, sitting on the limo’s seat.
Moorcrock swears and I take in a deep breath to hold back nausea.
The muscle car comes roaring back, having recovered from its swerving defensive maneuver.
“There’s no way I can outrun him, Mr. Moor—boss,” the driver says.
“Then make it so he can’t follow us anymore,” Moorcrock says with chilling finality. He turns to me and arches his brows. “You might want to brace yourself.”
“Oh fuck,” I mutter, steeling myself for impact. This is what I get for being snarky at the indie film festival.