Lone Wolf(59)

            “What? Why?” Maria looked back, her heart in her throat, even as she slid behind the wheel. “Oh . . .”

            She saw it now too. A long black limousine, slowly sliding its way up the narrow, dirty street, heading for the unfinished houses. Some of the builders saw it too and glanced up, curious.

            Maria started the truck. She put it in gear and drove cautiously forward, her palms sweating. She’d have to go to the end of the cul-de-sac and turn around, no other way out.

            The limo crept forward, not speeding up, just driving as though the person inside was looking over the houses being rebuilt. Bradley probably owned them, or maybe this wasn’t Bradley at all. In any case, with luck Ellison’s dusty truck would look like it belonged to one of the workers, with its owner heading out to find some late lunch or maybe more supplies.

            Pablo was fidgeting with impatience, but Maria drove slowly, casually. She made the turn at the cul-de-sac, the tires crackling on loose gravel on the asphalt, and rolled back the way she’d come.

            Pablo kept his face bent to the magazine, though he watched from the corner of his eye. The limo came on at its same crawl.

            As Maria reached the spot where she’d started, the limo glided smoothly forward, turned its long body, and blocked the road.

            Maria slammed on the brakes. Pablo’s magazine fell. “Gun it. Get around them.”

            Maria started to, but she made herself stop. If she hurtled the truck up through a yard and around the limo, they’d chase her, stop her, maybe shoot her and Pablo both. Besides, she had a better idea.

            “No,” Maria said.

            “Shit, woman. That’s Bradley.”

            “I guessed that. Wonder what he’s doing here, and not holed up in his house?”

            “I don’t care. Aw, damn it.”

            Four men exited the limo. They wore casual clothes, jeans and polo shirts, no business suits in sight. They looked like Texas businessmen out looking at their properties, except that three of the men surrounded the fourth as though they were his bodyguards. All four wore guns in holsters on their belts, no hiding them.

            The fourth man was shorter and slimmer of build than the others, had a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He looked innocuous, a Texas man with enough money and confidence that he felt no need to dress to impress, until he turned his head and looked at Maria.

            The cold in his eyes made her gasp. At five paces away, the chill of him seeped over her, a man with no remorse, no conscience. He could tell his three bodyguards to open fire on the truck, killing her and Pablo without a word, even in front of the construction workers, and walk away without worry.

            Pablo’s hand went down his jeans to his ankle holster, but Maria put her hand on his arm. “Wait.”

            “I can get off at least two shots before they can.”

            “Wait.”

            Pablo started muttering in Spanish, asking Mary, the mother of God, to protect him from crazy bitches who thought they were invincible because they ran with Shifters. Maria ignored him, opened the door of the truck, and hopped out. She spread her hands and kept them out to her sides so they’d see she had no weapons.

            Even so, two of the bodyguards drew pistols, holding them close by their sides, but definitely training them on her.

            “Mr. Bradley?” Maria asked, as though the guns didn’t make her nervous. “I’m Maria. I was hoping I could speak with you.”





Chapter Fourteen




“Were you?” Bradley’s voice was flat, uninflected. “I don’t know you. I know Mr. Marquez there, but not you.”