I’d fathered.
While my brain tried to work out a coherent explanation, bright flickering light at the corner of my eye commanded attention. A glance in the side-view mirror confirmed what I feared. Cops.
“Oh, shit.”
“What . . .” Jazz began. A siren interrupted. “Damn it.” She eased down on the brakes and guided the van toward the roomy, deserted roadside. “Think that guy at the motel called them?”
“Maybe. If he could manage to find a phone.” I leaned over and twisted to face the back. “Ian, wake up. We have a problem. Maybe two or three problems.”
No response.
“Ian!” I shouted this time. “We could really use your help, like
now.
”
Silence.
Jazz gave me a curious look. “How could he help? If anything, he’ll only make them more suspicious. Especially if they see he’s been shot.”
“He . . . uh, you’re right. He can’t help.”
Or won’t.
Didn’t this qualify as a need? If nothing else, I
desired
to stay out of jail. This master gig was highly overrated. I felt less like Cinderella and more like used drywall. Perpetually screwed.
Cops could smell panic. I forced myself to relax. Probablyjust a routine stop, some small-town fuzz trying to fill a quota. I’d offer to pay the ticket later.
Jazz glanced at me. “This is going on your bill.”
“Right.” I shook my head and fought a smile.
Blue-white light flooded the driver’s-side window. A cop’s flashlight. Jazz turned her head, and I squinted against the glare. The beam remained steady for long seconds. The cop moved off. Footsteps circled the back of the van. The figure reappeared at my window and repeated the holding pattern with the light. At last, the cop switched it off and tapped on the glass—my first clue something about this situation didn’t wash. I wasn’t the one with the license and registration.
Grimacing, Jazz lowered my window with the controls on her side.
The backwash from the headlights revealed the cop’s movements clearly. He stepped back, still gripping the heavy flashlight in one hand, and with the other drew his piece.
“Step out of the vehicle. Both of you. On this side.”
I stared at the gun and reached for my seatbelt. This made four. Not that I was counting.
T HE COP DIRECTED US TO STAND AGAINST THE VAN, FACING HIM . “If either of you have any weapons, toss ’em now.” He gestured with the flashlight to the weed-choked ditch beyond, keeping the gun trained on us. Mostly on me.
My stomach clenched. This wasn’t routine. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Conner, you dirty son of a bitch.” Jazz pulled her Glock and threw it hard, narrowly missing the man in uniform. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Deal?” I barely managed to get the word out. The worldtilted viciously, like a carnival amusement ride at double speed, and my legs threatened to fail at holding up the rest of me. Once again, reality refused to make sense. “You made a deal with the cops?”
“Not the sharpest pencil, are you, Donatti?” Conner sneered. “Your little friend is dealing with Trevor. I’m just here to make sure she follows through.”
The carnival ride screeched to a stop. Anger and pain focused my thoughts. I should have seen this coming—though it still hurt, more than the ass-kicking I’d expected from her in the first place would have. Jazz was a thief, just like me. Wouldn’t I have done the same?
No, I decided. I wouldn’t have. Not to her. Even before I knew about the kid.
“Gavyn . . .”
She gutted me with a word. She’d never called me Gavyn before. Too late to start now. Ignoring her, I eased away and assessed the situation. Jazz obviously wasn’t going to be any help. If I could throw this Conner guy’s guard off, I might be able to take him down. But what about Ian? The djinn must have truly passed out . . . if he was still alive. Even he wouldn’t be callous enough to ignore this disaster.
The distance between Jazz and me grew by
While my brain tried to work out a coherent explanation, bright flickering light at the corner of my eye commanded attention. A glance in the side-view mirror confirmed what I feared. Cops.
“Oh, shit.”
“What . . .” Jazz began. A siren interrupted. “Damn it.” She eased down on the brakes and guided the van toward the roomy, deserted roadside. “Think that guy at the motel called them?”
“Maybe. If he could manage to find a phone.” I leaned over and twisted to face the back. “Ian, wake up. We have a problem. Maybe two or three problems.”
No response.
“Ian!” I shouted this time. “We could really use your help, like
now.
”
Silence.
Jazz gave me a curious look. “How could he help? If anything, he’ll only make them more suspicious. Especially if they see he’s been shot.”
“He . . . uh, you’re right. He can’t help.”
Or won’t.
Didn’t this qualify as a need? If nothing else, I
desired
to stay out of jail. This master gig was highly overrated. I felt less like Cinderella and more like used drywall. Perpetually screwed.
Cops could smell panic. I forced myself to relax. Probablyjust a routine stop, some small-town fuzz trying to fill a quota. I’d offer to pay the ticket later.
Jazz glanced at me. “This is going on your bill.”
“Right.” I shook my head and fought a smile.
Blue-white light flooded the driver’s-side window. A cop’s flashlight. Jazz turned her head, and I squinted against the glare. The beam remained steady for long seconds. The cop moved off. Footsteps circled the back of the van. The figure reappeared at my window and repeated the holding pattern with the light. At last, the cop switched it off and tapped on the glass—my first clue something about this situation didn’t wash. I wasn’t the one with the license and registration.
Grimacing, Jazz lowered my window with the controls on her side.
The backwash from the headlights revealed the cop’s movements clearly. He stepped back, still gripping the heavy flashlight in one hand, and with the other drew his piece.
“Step out of the vehicle. Both of you. On this side.”
I stared at the gun and reached for my seatbelt. This made four. Not that I was counting.
T HE COP DIRECTED US TO STAND AGAINST THE VAN, FACING HIM . “If either of you have any weapons, toss ’em now.” He gestured with the flashlight to the weed-choked ditch beyond, keeping the gun trained on us. Mostly on me.
My stomach clenched. This wasn’t routine. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Conner, you dirty son of a bitch.” Jazz pulled her Glock and threw it hard, narrowly missing the man in uniform. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Deal?” I barely managed to get the word out. The worldtilted viciously, like a carnival amusement ride at double speed, and my legs threatened to fail at holding up the rest of me. Once again, reality refused to make sense. “You made a deal with the cops?”
“Not the sharpest pencil, are you, Donatti?” Conner sneered. “Your little friend is dealing with Trevor. I’m just here to make sure she follows through.”
The carnival ride screeched to a stop. Anger and pain focused my thoughts. I should have seen this coming—though it still hurt, more than the ass-kicking I’d expected from her in the first place would have. Jazz was a thief, just like me. Wouldn’t I have done the same?
No, I decided. I wouldn’t have. Not to her. Even before I knew about the kid.
“Gavyn . . .”
She gutted me with a word. She’d never called me Gavyn before. Too late to start now. Ignoring her, I eased away and assessed the situation. Jazz obviously wasn’t going to be any help. If I could throw this Conner guy’s guard off, I might be able to take him down. But what about Ian? The djinn must have truly passed out . . . if he was still alive. Even he wouldn’t be callous enough to ignore this disaster.
The distance between Jazz and me grew by
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