Shiver by Karen Robards Page B

walk. Whatever it took. “Just let me go and take it. I won’t report it stolen, I swear.”
    “With my leg like it is, I can’t drive.” He said it flatly, as though that was the end of the discussion. The words rang in Sam’s head like the tolling of some terrible bell. If he couldn’t drive, he wasn’t going to let her go. He needed her. God help her.
    The atmosphere inside the truck was suddenly thick with tension. As the hard truth sank in, Sam stared up ahead without really seeing anything.
    “What part of ‘we’re on the same side’ did you fail to understand back there?” His voice was lower and grittier, and, glancing at him, Sam got the impression that he was in considerable pain. She had a happy thought: maybe he’ll pass out.
    Then what?
    I’ll push him out of the truck and drive like hell.
    Call that plan B. What she needed was a plan A. Something that was actually likely to work.
    Maybe she could reason with him.
    She took a deep breath. “Look, whatever you’re involved in, I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ll drop you off anywhere you say, okay? Just tell me where.”
    A beat passed. “Fair enough.”
    Did that constitute a deal? Sam couldn’t be sure, and realized she wouldn’t trust it even if she thought it did. He had given in way too easily: it didn’t take genius to suspect that he was stringing her along, trying to keep her cooperative while he got what he wanted out of her. His breathing was sounding a little ragged; out of the corner of her eye, Sam watched as he gingerly touched the far side of his thigh just below the constricting belt and winced. She couldn’t see the wound itself—it was on his outer thigh—but she surmised it was bad. His face hardened as he glanced up and caught her looking at him.
    “First thing we need to do is lose the BMW. It’s got a GPS in it, and believe me, as soon as they realize what’s happened they’ll be tracking us by it. What’s involved in unhooking it? Can you do it from inside the truck?”
    He didn’t sound like he was about to lose consciousness.Damn. Sam shook her head even as the thought of being tracked by GPS made her heart beat faster.
    “I have to get out to work the winch.”
    He gave her a long look. “You’re going to run away from me the first chance you get, aren’t you?”
    The answer was so obvious that she didn’t know why she even bothered to lie. “No.”
    “Maybe I better explain that those guys you shot back there are just a small part of the crew who’ll be looking for us as soon as they realize that I—we—escaped. They’re ruthless, vicious killers, and they’re going to keep coming after us, you understand?”
    Just the idea that a gang of ruthless, vicious killers might be coming after her made Sam nauseous.
    “Us?” Sam shook her head. “Oh, no. Uh-uh. There’s no ‘us’ in this. There’s you. They’re coming after you. Not me.”
    “I hate to burst your bubble, baby doll, but they’re coming after you, too.” His voice was grim.
    Sam felt cold sweat popping out around her hairline. “Not if you let me go.”
    “It’s too late for that. Even if I didn’t need you to drive, you’d only wind up getting yourself killed.”
    A single traffic light suspended on a drooping wire marked the Y-shaped intersection. It was red although they were the only vehicle within sight on either road. Even though they were still a couple of blocks away, Sam started applying the brakes, and they in turn started to groan in protest. She paid no attention as she considered her next best step. Story ran east. Eastwas the direction she meant to take. East led to people, possible escape opportunities, the heart of East St. Louis, and eventually, home and Tyler. North-south, following the path of the river, was the other choice. South led to a whole lot of nothing, while north eventually provided access to the Poplar Street Bridge, which carried three interstates across the Mississippi into St.