FOURTEEN

Dagne

Cruising on the highway, I reach across and tap the GPS to find out where the hell it is exactly he has me going. The estimated time of arrival is seventeen hours from now—I’ve already been on the road for one. Wherever the hell the destination is, he could have warned me I’d be spending half a goddamn week driving this truck.

Iron Mountain.

Holy hell. He has me headed to Michigan. Better get my ass comfortable then, I suppose. I indicate left and head to the far lane, settling into position as I cruise the light traffic. With one hand on the wheel, I reach around the passenger’s seat and feel my way through the bag of food Hooch bought. I wrap my fingers around something plastic, and square, and pull it into my lap. Jerky. Cool. I can do that.

Five minutes later and my fingers are coated in the delicious mix of spices they used on the meat. I lick each one in turn, returning for a second sweep to catch any hint of what’s left, when a flash of light catches my eye.

Red and blue flicker in my rearview.

Damn it.

I had one job. One job, and I fucked it up.

Apprehension grips my throat, each breath heavy to take, each swallow an effort to push through. I indicate to the shoulder and pull off, the cruiser coming in to stop behind me. Using my mirrors, I track the officer as he climbs out of his car and stands at the tail of the truck. He scrutinizes every damn inch as he makes his way lazily up the side to my open window.

“Afternoon, Ma’am.”

“Afternoon.”

“Just a routine stop.”

My heart slows a little … but not much. His partner exits the passenger’s side of the cruiser and begins the task of checking under the body, in the tray, and looking inside the cab. All the while, the first officer smirks at me from behind his tinted shades.

“License and registration.”

Fuck. I’ve got a license, but registration? Hoping like hell Hooch keeps it the same place as anybody else with half a brain, I reach over to the glove compartment and open it up. Something heavy, something metal, clunks as I pull the door open.

The registration papers sit on top of it.

Holy shit.

I whip the sheets out, pretty damn certain it was the end of a gun I saw peeking out from under the shop manual, and hand them over.

“My license is in my pocket.” I raise both hands and indicate to my hip with my eyes.

The officer nods, and steps back as he opens my door. “If you could step out, and I will retrieve it for you.”

I oblige—what other choice do I have—and step into the warm sunshine. The rays beat down on my head and shoulders as I face the bed of the truck, placing my hands wide on the edge.

The officer pats me down before retrieving my card file from my pocket, and flicking through until he gets to my license.

It doesn’t take long; I don’t have many cards.

“Dagne Alderson.” The way he pronounces my name—Dag-Nay—irritates the hell out of me, but I let it slide. “What’s your reason for travel today?”

“I travel everyday,” I state. “No set abode.”

“Homeless?”

“Sort of.”

He grunts behind me, returning the card wallet. With or without my license, I have no idea.

“You can turn to face me.”

I spin, eyeing the second lawman as he bends on one knee to check the wheel arches. “Do you do this thorough of a search for everyone?”

“Nope.”

“Not so routine then, huh?”

The first officer smirks, casually wandering back to his cruiser. The sun is unrelenting while I wait on him to run my details. I’d kill for a drink about now.

“Okay if I reach into the cab to get some water?”

“Stay where you are, please.” The second officer continues his search of the vehicle after flashing me one hell of a hate-filled stare.

Who the hell do they think I am?

The first officer returns as I run my tongue over my lips in a futile effort to feel refreshed.

“This vehicle is registered to a Melanie Porter. Were you aware of that?”

I shake my head, opting to be as truthful as I can so it doesn’t tangle me in a web of too many lies. “No, I wasn’t. I was loaned the vehicle by an acquaintance I made at my last stopover.”

“You don’t find that a little strange,” the officer grills, “being loaned a vehicle by somebody you’ve only just met?”

“Nope. Each to their own, Officer.”

“Walk to the rear of the vehicle and place your hands on the tailgate, please.”

“Why?”

“Do it.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.

I reposition myself at the back of the truck and watch as the second officer starts pulling absolutely everything out of the cab and dumping it onto the roadside.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I ask, frowning as I’m pretty sure he crushed every potato chip in the bag with the force my groceries hit the pavement.

“Let you know when I find it.”

The “raid” on the truck lasts barely ten minutes, and yet the mess the two of them make is unbelievable. Nothing is left untouched. Especially not the handgun in the glove compartment.

“Registered to you?” Officer One asks with it held high in his right hand.

“I didn’t even know it was in there,” I protest. “Like I said, I’m borrowing the truck. You know the vehicle’s not mine.”

“Doesn’t mean the gun isn’t either.”

Great. I’ve got one of those ”guilty until proven innocent” types.

“I swear it’s not mine. Confiscate it; I don’t care what you do with it.”

“What about this?” Officer Two asks from where he’s still half in, half out of the cab. “What’s this for?”

He lifts the scrap of paper Hooch tucked into the visor before I left—the message. I never read it, never had the desire to know what exactly I was getting into until now.

“I don’t know what that is, sorry.”

The officer looks down at it as he smoothes the paper between his hands. “An address. Who for?”

“I really don’t know. It must have been in the truck already when it was loaned to me.”

“Guess you won’t mind us taking this too, then?”

Fuck a duck. How much worse can this get? I scowl at the cocky bastard as he walks past my position to put the gun and the note in their cruiser.

“Am I free to go now?”

“Not sure yet.” The first officer proceeds to pat me down, hands taking far too long at the junction of my thighs.

“You think I have a missile launcher smuggled in there or something?”

He chuckles, and then swiftly punches me in the kidney. Motherfucker.

“You tell your biker bitches that we’re keeping a close eye on them.”

“I’ll be sure to send your love,” I sass, short of breath. Goddamn that hurts.

The cops return to their car while I lean against the tailgate of the truck, wincing at the sharp pains that radiate through my lower back. Officer One makes eye contact as he reverses a little to pull out from behind me, and grins.

I lift my middle finger.

Now leaving Texas. Hope you enjoyed your stay.