Shiver

panic. Do they know? Will that make a difference? Oh, God, am I making a huge mistake here?
    A tap on her window brought her gaze swinging around. The other two men in suits stood just outside her window frowning in at her. Both looked like they could have been marshals, but then, she wasn’t about to rely on that. Books and covers, she knew the drill. One sure thing was that both carried pistols, which meant they both were to be treated warily. The man closest to her pecked on her window again with an imperious forefinger. Like he expected her to just reach right down and open the door for him.
    “Talk about your fuck-ups,” Marco said to the men on his side, drawing her gaze again. His tone confirmed what she already knew: he had issues with them.
    “Tell me about it.” One of the marshals, if that’s who these guys really were, reached through the broken window to pull up the lock on Marco’s door. He was stocky and blunt featured, with dark brown hair cut military style. “Won’t happen again, though.”
    Marco replied, “Once was plenty,” and the two men exchanged less-than-friendly looks.
    I’m getting a really bad feeling here.
    “I don’t like this,” Sam said and Marco looked around at her. Their eyes met. Stupid to feel like he was somebody she could count on now, when fear and indecision were running rampant inside her. When she didn’t know anything about him, really. When he was the one who’d been in the custody of U.S. Marshals, who’d been nearly murdered by criminals, and who was being taken back into custody now.
    “Stay cool,” he told her as his door was jerked open. “Just do what they—” He broke off as the men reached in to grab him. Yelping “Hey, watch the leg!” Marco was hauled ungently out of the truck.
    Sam’s stomach twisted into a pretzel.
    “Open the door, please.” The tapping on her window morphed into an aggressive knocking accompanied by the impatient jiggling of her door handle. Sam’s head whipped around to check it out: the first guy, who she now registered had a blond buzz cut and a pugnacious expression, was trying to get in her door. Just beyond his shoulder, the other guy, tall and thin and bald as a billiard ball, glared in at her. With her peripheral vision, she watched Marco on the ground, his arms draped around the shoulders of the two men who’d pulled him out of the truck, being hustled away in a fireman’s carry toward the car blocking the truck in from the front.
    “You! Open up,” Blondie boomed. His tone made it clear: hewas in charge. Sam’s heart thumped. The underlying message was: she had no choice but to do what he told her.
    No. But she didn’t say it out loud.
    They’ll take me into custody, too. What’s going to happen to Tyler?
    “I’ll go around to the other side,” the second guy said.
    Blondie nodded, and the other guy started walking toward the front of the truck. Watching him, Sam’s breathing suspended. Her heart thumped like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
    To hell with this.
    That thought sprang fully formed into her consciousness, stiffening her spine, sending warm darts of courage to penetrate the cold fear that held her in thrall. Sam made up her mind just like that: she wasn’t giving herself over to these guys, U.S. Marshals or not. She was going to take care of herself, and her son, in her own way.
    I’ve got to get out of here.
    How?
    The solution came to her in the blink of an eye. Big Red might not be able to outrun the cars. But there was another way . . .
    Grabbing for the seat belt, she yanked it around herself and clicked it into place.
    “Hey.” Blondie rapped the window, scowling through the glass at her. The other guy was almost even with the front of the truck. “You’re just making this hard on yourself.”
    It was now or never.
    Her hands still clutched the wheel. She still stood on the brake.
    Taking a deep breath, Sam moved her foot, slamming it down hard on the gas. The engine roared. There was a moment’s lag time; jaw tight with determination, she stared straight ahead, concentrating on her target. With her peripheral vision she saw Blondie’s eyes widen. Baldie’s head whipped around. Then the transmission caught, and the truck hurtled forward. Slow and cumbersome, it was also big and heavy as hell. Big and heavy enough to do what she needed it to do. The men half carrying Marco to their car—it was parked maybe two yards away from her front