Shiver

bumper—leaped out of the way in the nick of time, nearly dropping Marco on his butt in the process. Even as she registered their wide-eyed, slack-jawed expressions, Sam closed her eyes. She just had time to brace herself before the truck slammed into the side of the sedan.
    Boom! The sound of the crash was as loud as an explosion. Flung violently forward, she was grabbed by the seat belt—the truck was too old for air bags—and held fast before she could hit anything damaging. Her eyes popped open. The Taurus flew sideways, the shiny black metal crumpled like a squashed Coke can with both front and rear doors caved in.
    Yes! Sam yanked the gearshift into reverse even as she reoriented herself in the seat. Then, looking over her shoulder at her second target, she stomped the gas again. Outside, the men, Marco included, yelled threats and curses. Sam didn’t even try to understand the specifics of what they were saying. Three of the suits started running toward her, shouting and raising theirguns like they would open fire, while the fourth one stayed where he was, supporting Marco. Sam registered all this in a split second as her head whipped around to watch where she was going through the rear windshield. She held on tight to the wheel as the truck shot backward, slamming into the car behind. Boom! Metal crumpled. The car bounced up on its two passenger-side wheels. Sam watched wide-eyed as the sedan tilted onto its side before rolling over onto its hood. As a bonus, the door Marco had left open on the truck had slammed shut on its own.
    The noise from the men watching jerked her gaze forward again.
    Three of them were running toward her, closing fast. Behind them, Marco, his arm still around the fourth guy’s shoulders, shouted something Sam was too agitated to understand. Her attention was all on Blondie, who was aiming his gun right at her.
    Sam’s heart leaped. She ducked. Then she put the pedal to the metal and kept on going, staying in reverse as she skirted the overturned car and zoomed away. If Blondie or any of the others fired, there was no bang and no bullets hit the truck. Almost sure that neither of the cars she was leaving behind was up to mounting anything approaching a high-speed chase, she felt a rising tide of excitement as she realized that she was on the brink of actually getting away.
    The sounds of the crash were still ringing in her ears as she shifted into drive and peeled rubber out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER NINE
     

     
    S anders drove. Danny, in the backseat, center, with his injured leg stretched out through the gap between the front bucket seats, a bulky, grim-faced marshal on either side of him, was doing his best to stay in the game for as long as he could. Light-headed as all hell, sick and dry-mouthed, he wasn’t about to slide gently into the beckoning oblivion of unconsciousness if he could help it. There were too many loose ends left to be tied up. Like retrieving Sam. Which Sanders was flat-out refusing to even attempt.
    In reply to Danny’s demand to know where they were going, Sanders said, “Scott Airfield. Until we figure out what the hell went wrong tonight, I’m not taking any chances.”
    With Supervisory Deputy Marshal Bruce Sanders, everything was strictly by the book, which, Danny was discovering, wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Thirty-something, dark brown hair with a military cut, six feet tall with the stocky build of a former football player and the arrogant features of a first-rate asshole, Sanders tonight wore the hunted look of a man whofeared that he was hovering on the brink of having his career go down the toilet. An operation that he was in charge of had just blown up in his face, costing the lives of two of his men. Any more risk he was not prepared to take.
    “I gave ’em a heads-up that we were on the way in,” Groves, who was wedged in to Danny’s right, told Sanders. The heads-up had been over secure radio: Danny knew that because he’d seen Groves, who had a blond buzz cut above a baby face, talking into it, although, since he’d been busy arguing with Sanders at the time, he hadn’t been paying attention to what was being said. Groves still held the radio.
    “Which we are,” Sanders emphasized.
    So frustrated that he would have jumped out of the car and gone after Sam on his own if it had been possible, Danny all but leaned forward to smack Sanders in the back of the head. “We’re not going anywhere without—”
    A blare of