He wasn’t about to take off his ski mask. Not with the chance that his image might be caught on a security camera. It was a good damn thing he’d worn gloves. At least there wouldn’t be any fingerprints in the van—he figured the cops would find it, sooner or later.
He yanked at the handles on a few nearby cars, and alarms started peeling. Shit. He didn’t need this—
One car didn’t sound an alarm. One car…it was actually unlocked.
He glanced at the plates. Tourist.
Some people should really know better.
He jumped in the car, and, less than a minute later, he was shooting out of that parking garage. When it was safe, he ditched the ski mask.
His ribs fucking hurt from her hit. She’d pay for that attack. He was going to make sure of it. She’d be paying for everything that she’d done to him.
Did she think retribution would never come her way? Oh, it would.
Revenge. Punishment. Hell.
Carly Shay would get exactly what was due to her.
Chapter Four
The wound hadn’t been deep enough for stitches. Apparently, she just had a tendency to bleed like crazy. Who knew?
Carly sat on a gurney in the ER, a paper gown covering her body. Her clothes had been taken—where, she didn’t really know. Though she suspected the FBI had confiscated them. Probably looking for some kind of evidence on them.
Had the attacker bled on her? It was possible. She’d sure tried to hurt him. So maybe the FBI had his blood, his DNA. Maybe they could find out who the jerk was.
The curtains around her were pushed aside, and Carly gave a quick jump.
“Easy.” Ethan’s voice was low. “It’s just me.”
Her heartbeat didn’t slow down any.
Her bare feet flexed a bit and her shoulders hunched. “I figured the FBI would be hauling you away.”
He laughed and came closer. “They can’t. They don’t have any evidence to use against me. Story of their lives.” His hand lifted and he brushed back her hair. When she glanced at his face, Carly saw that his laughter was already gone, as if it had never been there at all.
His expression was so intent that her breath caught for a moment. What’s wrong now?
His gaze dropped to her new bandage. “I was scared as all hell when I couldn’t find you in that building. I went up to that idiot shrink’s office and found out that you were gone, but the guard in the lobby said you hadn’t left.”
She swallowed, then focused on breathing. Nice and easy. “So you came in, guns blazing, to find me.” She could hear the bustle of people around her. Doctors and nurses were working frantically just behind the curtain. She’d been told that she had to stay put, for a few more moments, until her doctor officially released her.
She didn’t want to wait, though. Carly wanted to cut and run.
Hospitals weren’t exactly her favorite spots.
“I should have been with you the whole time. I knew the threat was there. I knew that Quincy’s brother was looking for you.”
“You still think it was the brother?”
“I think his younger brother, Curtis, has been aiming to punish his brother’s killer for years. He might look clean on paper, but I know better—than just about anyone else—how easy it is to fake a clean cover.”
"I didn’t see his face. I have no clue who attacked me.” She gave a weak laugh. “The FBI agent grilled me, again and again, but I couldn’t tell him much. Just that the guy was big, close to your height. Strong. His voice was low, no accent that I could detect.” And all that was pretty much nothing. No useful info. “He had all of his killing supplies in the back of that van. He said he’d been waiting to get me alone—”
“He won’t get you alone again,” Ethan promised her.
“You can’t stay with me forever.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
The curtain slid back once more. This time, her doctor was there. And a male nurse—one holding scrubs and looking apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse began, “but you won’t be getting your clothes back tonight. The FBI—”
“Right,” Carly interrupted. “I figured that.” But at least the nurse had brought her scrubs to wear. She wouldn’t be heading out in the paper gown and flashing her ass to the FBI agents on the way out of the hospital.
That was one win for her.
Maybe.
“The wound wasn’t severe,” the doctor said. The doctor was a lady who appeared to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. A little too thin and with her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Just keep it clean. The last thing you want is an infection.”