Deep Black by Stephen Coonts; Jim Defelice

neck, tickling her common carotid artery. It wasn’t the best placement,
     but it was adequate.
    “Have it your way, Chucky boy.”
    “Hit the brakes and you’ll bleed to death in thirty seconds,” he warned.
    “Don’t be so dramatic.” She eased off her speed and pulled to the right, driving past a row of trucks. “It would take two
     minutes for me to die, if not three or four.”
    A blue light began flashing behind them.
    “See what I was saying?” said the woman.
    Dean nudged her throat one last time as a warning, then slid his hand down to the back of the seat rest as she stopped the
     car. A pair of policemen approached with flashlights. Dean noticed that she not only kept the car running but also had her
     foot hovering over the gas pedal.
    He also noticed that she had changed her miniskirt for a pair of multipocketed cargo pants, which seemed a bit of a shame.
    The woman waited until the policeman was at the side of the car before rolling down the window. When she did, the policeman
     said something in Polish; the woman answered with a laugh and the policeman laughed, too. Then the man became very serious,
     apparently asking for her papers. She dug into her jacket for them. It occurred to Dean that the policeman’s angle gave him
     a pretty fair peek at her breasts, a view that she did nothing to discourage. Finally she handed over a thickly folded set
     of papers. The policeman frowned some more, took something from the middle, then gave them back. He and his comrade retreated
     to their car. When they were inside, she started forward slowly.
    “What did you say?” Dean asked.
    “That we’re American spies and would kick his butt if he interfered with us.”
    “Seriously.”
    “I am serious.”
    “What did you really say?”
    “He is nosy, isn’t he?”
    “Who are you talking to?” said Dean.
    “Voices. I hear voices. I’m Joan of Arc. Didn’t they tell you that, Chuck?”
    Dean grabbed her neck again. “Never, ever call me Chuck, Chucky, or Chuck-bob.”
    “Chuck-bob?” She started laughing uncontrollably, and didn’t even stop when he pressed the knife harder against her flesh.
     “Chuck-bob?”
    “Explain what’s going on.”
    “Hang on. I have another bribe to pay.” She pulled over to the side of the road, which had narrowed somewhat since they left
     the warehouse area of the airport. It looked deserted, but it wasn’t—a pair of headlights appeared on the opposite shoulder.
     They belonged to a Toyota pickup, which revved across the pavement. The driver pulled close enough to their car that Dean
     could smell his breath when he rolled down the window. Joan of Arc handed him an envelope and the truck flew away. She put
     the car in gear immediately, continuing down the long, dark expanse. After about a minute and a half, she took a turn onto
     what seemed to be a dirt road; fifty yards of potholes later they whipped onto a highway, just in front of a panel truck.
    “One damn truck on the road for miles and it nearly flattens us,” she said after accelerating from the squealing tires and
     piercing horn. “You’re bad luck, Charles Dean.”
    “My friends call me Charlie,” he told her.
    “I’m not your friend.”
    Dean slid the knife blade back up his sleeve and brought his arm back to his lap. “What’s your name?”
    “I told you. Joan of Arc.”
    “You’re not much of a comedienne.”
    “True. I like the meaty tragic roles.” She shifted a bit in the seat. “Lia DeFrancesca.”
    “Funny, you don’t look Italian.”
    “My parents are second-generation Italian-Americans. I’m adopted. No bullshit, Charlie.” She glanced at him. “Look, we have
     certain ways of doing things, okay?”
    “Like barging into men’s rest rooms?”
    “Got your attention. And I knew it was secure.”
    He couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or not.
    “Look, your only job here is to watch what we do,” she said. She sounded as if she was making an effort to be nice,